Behind her, photographers snap this line
of suits and gowns, tuxes and gowns, her parents
celebrating forty years of marriage
with this, their unwed daughter.
Our first, I tell her,
and like a finch flits to a higher limb
to avoid a lower danger, her gaze shifts
to a wine glass and that waiter,
couples who embrace that false beach on a sheet,
the ships false interior, like a butterfly
might lift delicacy from its caterpillar body.
In need of something sweet, she sips Shiraz.
Now white teeth. Now cameras flash.
I float away on a wave of lights
like seed through fields of sunflowers,
my wifes eyes, and mine
like drops of dew coming out at night to feed.