Bernard and Cerinthe

If a flower is always a velvet curtain

onto some peepshow he never opens,

it’s a shock to find himself, sheltering

from the storm in a greenhouse,

seduced by a leaf blushing blue

at the tips, begging to be stroked.

He’s caught in the unfamiliar ruffle

of knickerbockers or petticoat, a scent

of terror, vanilla musk. If he were

not himself, he’d let his trembling lips

articulate the malleability of wax;

the bruise of bracts, petals, purple

shrimps; seeds plump as buttocks,

tucked out of harm’s way, cocos-de-mer

washed up off Curieuse or Silhouette.

But being Bernard, he’s dumbstruck,

a buffoon in front of a saloon honey

high-kicking the can-can. Can’t-can’t.

He attempts to cool himself, thinking

about seahorses, Hippocampus erectus,

listening to the rain refusing to stop,