Peter Richards

She    

She came previous to herself and knocks
those things in ignorance I spoke about
questioning if she were the ghost at play
in my dream and pressing leaves in a book
so that I could observe them not shattering
aging beautifully knowing they were oak
leaves touching on violet but also tinges
of falconry brown the hood that is or glove
though by royal decree not the same leather
for the hood there is thought to be endless
with its own stars sanctums and fragrance
and a darkness that collects on the finger
in thick spirals of harrowing shade