PARFUM DE MINUIT
Taylor Graham
She lifts the blue whorled glass
against the light: inside, a dark
spiral caught within itself,
a cosmos of wild weather
in her hands. Inside, the wind
goes careening through its stations,
seeking, seeking. But the glass
against her fingers is cool as rain,
gray-blue like old ladies' cheeks.
Stoppered. Inside, a genie
breathes forbidden sweetness
from his cheek, and swirls
his cape till all she sees
is blue as breathless.
