Untitled, with Peonies in Bloom

My lover lies in the midst of her dream.

On her bedside table, a bottle of oil.

The smell of almonds, a clear vase

filled with peonies, pink and darker

at each petal's edge, their heads round

as worlds, each bloom carved

with the curve of my lover's breasts.

The flowers' centers

are hidden. Her nipples

are dusk as the petals' lips.

In her dream, outside the window,

ivory moths made of paper

dance against the pane,

and on each of their wings, a word

I speak to her as she sleeps, moon

spilling over the grass and through

the glass, over the vee of darkness

held at the juncture of her thighs.

She turns to face the moon

and the flowers bend, strain

against the vase that holds them,

press toward her. Her lips open

on a long exhalation. The petals slip,

part, the blooms open like eyes.