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Eucalyptus

I am dripping eucalyptus
that scent like moths and half-moonlight.
It feels like the knit beneath your sheets, and
sticks clippings to the dada dancing on my skin.

It’s the taste of lemon balm lingering,
languid and laughing,
through the sun-soaked hours of late morning.

I think it’s even in that dark threshold
between our eyes. There, I uttered your name
as the boundaries blurred.

That scent like honey bees and the first quarter
covers me with strawberry kisses and yawns lupine
in my lap. She hunts skillfully, and I am, I fear,
possessed—the perfect game.