Toward Accuracy

We're high enough that what I call fog might be cloud.
Not Everest high, or Chomuolungma, 'Mother Goddess
of the World.� If we named things what they are,
our sentences would be monsoons, long rains of sound.
Morning is 'the time I suspect I am a horse,� dusk
'the light which treats our shadows like taffy.�
The number of times my name changes in a day,
from 'looking at the world with eyes of wood rasps�
to 'feathers have replaced my bones,� rules out
the wearing of name tags: I wear a chalk board,
thesaurus, that book of whispers, of meaning sex.
'There's a woman who smokes a cigarette
now and then, who picks tobacco off her tongue
as something moves along the fault line
of the horizon, knees pulled to her chest,
her breath wearing a dress of smoke�
is one way I think of you when I think of you.
And when I think of you, 'wants to be a candle�
isn't romantic but accurate, wicked light
leans in, away, writhes to get out of, to leap harder
into what it is.

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