Bride to a cricket prince,
you are what flutters on sacred nights,
hidden in the dark of a parallel light.
Spore. Insect. Pathos of the moon on orchids.
I sleep to enter that garden of phlox and plums
where you are queen,
where basalt lifts into a luminous wind,
and at your feet I pray
for the immortal love you once gave Ovid.