are you running to someplace that

beckons you? in the wild yonder, where I

crackle, the lungs of me blooming silver in the

dimness, riverbed gone out. should we meet then at

evening? under coxcomb and swollen,

filled with asking for each other, asking whether

goodness can be taught, whether this is right. and

how do you heal yourself, my dear?

I remember what you are—scab, totem,

juniper on the side of this house. do you make me

kind? would you like to reach between my doors—

lurid as a milksnake? I break every promise

made once to myself, in the darkening, dark

now, and my blackberries are burnt. I put fire

on the table, the rosewood made soft and

pinkish. I long to be among your

quiet plants, your neck unclothed, your wrist and

rhubarb, the red thorny vine coiling,

smoked in you—a heat that pulls, dragging anyone

toward it, toward being raptured,

unmade by your finger tips, undone my ribs,
vertebrae—scraped, used like a

whetstone. it is scary, to live like this, under the

x-ray machines, everything visible in my

young chest—a threshold. enter me between a

zillion bright rooms, all at once hushing.