For Francis

Wake languorously for we should all be spent

but what is not sidereal makes time spin

so the sun is near but its rays are faint

on my fingertips trailing swirls on skin.

Near to the window the Hibiscus blooms

swelling and unfurling a stamen’s tongue,

looking to fill up thickening catacombs;

we become like Calla Lilies unstrung.

When the motes of dust begin to settle

and we lie supine on hot, rumpled sheets, 

the Shaggy Ink Cap and the slippery petal

limbs like vines, twisted pink and complete.

No words need be spoken, glances say all

Will we drift apart or keep with the fall?