11.04.21
when no thing is named
how safe, to be beautiful
in the morning
a shell
when water is milk
green, we are carven
rinds braided in veins
every touch is a line
of measure, appellation
is to be waded by
fingers or hewn in
silt, etched
(for April Freely)
say skin is the mild
gauze of time, a coastal
grass
no force may harm you
that air brushes our
lacrimal and we brace
endless, even in going
a scent remains
it was not you, it was
the voice of a family
singing by the window
for food or water
their guttural instrument
woke me in rain
it was their hands
stretched at the balcony
that made my chest
thrust blood, feel
what I hear now as
a fibrous heartbeat
before these tulips
curled at the table
in new york city