My audience of one is you. These words
are all I have to remake amethyst,
and yet there is a moment now outside
when all lost gardens are remade as this,
when meconopsis, even in this heat
endures, and opens blossoms in the dark,
 
as when a curtain, drawn, remakes the night
complete and constant, half eternal, or
mirrors the folds of silk almost recalled
within those petals, opening, my love-
if these confessions postulate a time
of motionless improbability
 
then let time stop, and let me reinvoke
your movements, mine, this dance, or music I
have never heard, and yet remember as
I can remember perfumes of your skin
or catch the blue of amethyst in these
small words I give improbably to you.