all these days I have been working on you and think when it is finished-you will surprise me with a birth of asymmetry.

 

with inquisitive fingers I will touch the angles of your feet and somehow know how to write them. even blind I will

 

listen for

 

the constant warble-song in your heated throat.

 

the cynical transitions between states,

 

like blossoming clouds of apricot are the chemistry of wind-blown iron turning its attention homeward again. no more important than these, too, my eyes to see us growing into every stroke f your hand, a thought.

 

the structure of leaves, the glassy overtures of snow drifts-all this time rushing through our uneven limbs. swirling

 

around

 

the tense edges of this sudden life where we contend and attempt to pattern last winter’s ice storm.

 

a new edition is in everyday, like the unobserved dispensation of our controlled dreaming. it’s a little give measured out in

 

time

 

with a sometimes savage crash and bang. yes

 

those beats are complicated too, provoking the silence after thunder.

Originally published in White Wall Review 25 (2001)