Memoir
Deep into thicket, a brilliant wash of jewels. A great bevel-edged
everywhere that’s left after the window-maker’s hands
have been scoured. And I mumble my search for my wildest edge,
the approximate center of a heart made as if more tender
in your ever-sharp after. This is the huge spirit I can’t harness.
The luminous night of throats purring in unison. I think
you have become a caramel ocean, your skin a strange
softing as I travel, a pilgrim, weary and persistent,
spinning against my own hope for respite. Certain that soon enough, an oasis
will swift into vision. Certain that it will be the closest thing
to pressing myself to light. My eye speaks its own language, a garbled
rash of soon, tornado season and there is a world,
it has chased me down. I am asking you to rub an aloe and calm
this chafe. Maybe deliver me a treatise, its pages
clasped to my cellar door. I will try to conjure even the most myopic
patience, its blurred edge like a green light to welcome you with.