Into the day came perfume.
“Smell,” you said. “it’s gardenia.”
Beyond your linen press I saw
a dove fret open wings
over the hand that held it,
under the arched fingers
thwarting its flight,
her head bent dreaming
in planes and drifts of shades,
but no folds of the drape,
their shift on a figure hazed
by sunburst on fresh cloth,
white scent bound to a child,
she who gave out history.
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