Opium (after Jean Cocteau)

Autumn is the lungs' nostalgia.
Sunlight bathing phosphorescent silks
inside the body's water.
Swim in circles.
Small crystals, discovery or instinct.
As when I step outside a palace
of trees
a glass wall falls
apocolypse of sun
loosening a fist.
Opium rising,
recall
a fragrance smeared between us.
A word whispered into the mouth,
the ear asleep.