i pluck a magnolia, just for you

What do you do when I walk through Wisconsin
as through my garden: suave, apparent, notable,
like a gazelle's sashay. Do you look,
do you turn around for one last glance,
for one last wishful taste, then wish I was yours
and go on?

I know you do, caramel-coloured honey.
The streets are crowded but I am as distinct
as the way red steals your glare
from other colours . . .
blue, ecru, fuchsia's bright purple.
When will you ask me out, when will you
have the courage to do more than just look,
then wish, then imagine who I must be;
How I must be in bed?

I pluck a honeysuckle from my garden,
then a magnolia: this one is for me.
That one is for you. I put it here
beside the porch railing, where you should
see it.