Certain moments move me until I must be everywhere
; split myself, nerve particles, into a fountain
(fluffing like a pelican) or up a tree trunk (picking at unhurried bark). Refusing to taste a singular air.
Except atop a high rise
, dangling by a string of your hair—
I might collapse. I must confuse my limbs with yours. Listen to me.
You’re all that I trust with my skin.
It stains your hands like silly putty
– palms collecting newspaper prints
– ink in exchange for a lift up the wall.
But the impression is vague, like fever
I’m faint to recall. Like rain, like a scent not smelled but somehow heard or seen.
Here’s to that dream on the back of your hand:
My face, small, smudged – but too fast for love
It shows up, specific places, I can point them out: plaques of moonburn
In all spots, pores of vulnerable me, sites of infection, sites of osmosis
near the collarbone, clavicle
Oh, it would be easy to battle disease
. I already fashion my own anesthetic
. I crouch down to look gravel in the eye. My knuckles are groundproof – would welcome the scar.
It’s not the know, the not-know, the knawing – it’s the soft things
: the bellies, the couches, the mops of wet hair that I fear. I claw to my corner and try to forget. Your selection of wine
. A clear, distant hill. A drunken confession
made in confidential silence.
I ought not to focus on space.
cross me, holy
, but leave only silhouettes.