One evening you slip too far
out of yourself,
and you can’t get back.

So now you are too slender for a name.
Great hands of rain scoop you up,
the incessant flowers hammer you
with perfumes and bees.

Your body lies and rolls,
a husk of honey and smells,
all its pores are open
but you can’t get back in.

The power cables of veins in a horse’s neck,
the agitated flutter of a butterfly’s wings,
if only your hands
could remain your hands,
if only the leaves
would stop growing.

For a while at least
you must live out here
among the gigantic, thunderous crystals of snowflakes,
the lost crayons and rumbling thistledowns,
with the vagabond winds
and the drift of stars, pollens and spores.

She has made you into smoke and bulbs,
and all the castles of your bones have fallen.
She has brought you to yourself,
a creature always on the way to somewhere else,
forever turning to strangers.

The sea has cast you too far inland
and strands you among the driftwood and wrack
to swell and stiffen and bleach,
tiny insects port off your flesh,
you have to run quickly between your dreams
which glow like phosphorous,
touching her hand by accident,
dodging the mercurial showers of summer.

Memories crumble like abandoned farms,
whole pasts grow unweeded,
the sugar of your thoughts dissolves
idly in someone else’s tea,
they are thinking of Russia,
when you lie down with her
you are more naked than you have ever been.

One evening you slip
too far out of yourself,
and the shining current washes you away
through the ducts, the vesicles and the cracks
in hopes and skin:
somewhere, still, she is waiting for you,
but you can’t get back.

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