bird bath

I’ll go to sleep in the fog,
lie down below its
hovering feet, dream of
breathing in the heady perfume
of small talk, patronized smiles,
the molasses eyes of men
as they syrup you, butter you
from collarbone to calf.
I dream of that.

In the fog, love, you touch my arm
and I follow you to the baptizing basin
in my backyard. A bird lights on the
rough, white stone and I am forced
to call him God; He dips his beak
in holy water and leaves it there,
as if He struck gold too heavy to lift out.

You speak to Him, love, as I
shut my eyes and pretend
I am back below the fog,
opening my mouth for no breath,
and I am there.

A/N: For The Romancing of Tuesday Dennings, a novel hollyisfainting and I are writing on the joint account J. Wood and R. Ashman, in case you were interested. It's difficult, writing poetry from someone else's point of view, much less from a published, established, allegedly good poet's point of view, as Tuesday, my character, is.

I would really appreciate some constructive criticism on this because of that; it's supposed to be for that story, so it has to be believeably good. *sigh* Difficult.