Nerve ending in a deadened limb,
whatever enlivens can be nothing but sustenance.
What grafts back interiors?
an underlining of skin?
Your flesh takes in everything, translates
& gives it back.
Can you feel me?
Then make my shape.
Once I was an instrument. Then corrosion came.
If you breathe upon me
off the rust will peel. Layer by layer, I’ll strip,
all old masks & worn skin.
There’s susceptibility here.
There’s a resurrection.
Filaments extend tendrils, every sensitive head
fed through the rudiments.
Just so, I surge forth, hook, sinker & line,
reaping what is Earth-less. It is the heart of the breeze.
Is there a delectable disturbance alive in this garden?
The mirrors are becoming windows.
In you, I look out, entwining invisibly to your infinite dusk.
It shimmers, soothing blue. I rock here, a tide,
to your spasmodic summer coming.