She wants to gently peel herself back,
fade like Venice in May -
rose and azure,
saffron in the water
that only laps when spoken to;
that lingers rich
on the tongue -
sweet like too much wine
or the sun cresting,
early summer.
She wants to feel the pale grief
that comes from
knowing too many secrets
or sensing too much magic
trembling in the clustering vines,
the wanton whispers lingering
just above the horizon.
That glistering web setting over her limbs
like September on fire.