Not even our eyes are our own . . .
I want to tune in to the surface, beside the mayfly
listen to how she holds her decorum on the skin of the pond.
I want to sequester words, hold them in stress positions,
foreignate them, string them up to ripen on vines
and I want to commune with rain and for the rain
to be merciful, a million tiny pressures on my flesh.
I refuse to return as either rose or tulip but wish
to be planted under the desiring night sky.
I want to be concentrated to a line under the pleat of your palm
and for it to radiate opalesque under shadow.
I want God’s fingers to break and for you to watch
as I fold my sleeve, reveal each detail of my paling wrist.