You color all. Is this longing?
Is it private to speak in the morning,
The birdsong like knives?
We sit on this bench while this wind swirls and billows.
This setting is love, yet we sit on this bench, yet we listen to birdsong.
This color, your brain, which is bluer than water.
I touch it, your brain, which is cooler than water.
I wonder, your brain, when it falters, will it be so cold?
We buffet on another with our bodies, with our slackened
Hearts. I put myself in it, your body, which aches.
I put myself in it, your brain,
Which is cooler than water.
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2008
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.