Mary Macpherson

The Game

Tree, I’m glad we’re finally talking—
all summer I was riding a cloud
across the harbour, flying
round the hills and metallic tower.
But when your leaves drifted down,
you became an elegant bouquet of bones
and I fell into your intricacy. First, I saw
you as curly hair, each wave twisting in
and out—never still. Then you wore
a lacy sweater full of diamond holes
hung with rain. Through your body
I spied part of a hill, a house,
and then, a figure, moving. When I walk
into the room, I’m like a lover, eager
for our next game. If the blind is down
I quickly scan for flickering on the fabric.
You are the fine naked restless one
I never want to meet.