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,â? dusk
—the light which treats our shadows like taffy.â?
The number of times my name changes in a day,
from —looking at the world with eyes of wood raspsâ?
to —feathers have replaced my bones,â? 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 candleâ?
isn—t romantic but accurate, wicked light
leans in, away, writhes to get out of, to leap harder
into what it is.