You will always reach
and extend. You will always
try to keep me to yourself on Monday
mornings: You will glare and I will go,
but you don’t care and you can’t know.
I will look at you too long and cry.
I will wonder where you’ve gone, at night.
I’ll fall asleep and dream: an acorn.
You are nothing but a breast, round
behind a blouse of clouds built to be
unbuttoned. You love: You share
yourself and you are always naked:
You love: You show us how to take
our places: You love: You cover our faces
This Gentle Surgery
Once more the bright blade of a morning breeze
glides almost too easily through me,
and from the scuffle I’ve been sutured to
some flap of me is freed: I am severed
like a simile: an honest tenor
trembling toward the vehicle I mean
to be: a blackbird licking half-notes
from the muscled, sap-damp branches
of the sugar maple tree… though I am still
a part of any part of every particle
of me, though I’ll be softly reconstructed
by the white gloves of metonymy,
I grieve: there is no feeling in a cut
that doesn’t heal a bit too much.
Psalm: Pater Noster
I am your plum:
Enfold me
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