down my spine, shimmering,
flipping like cards-from mint to
scalding white. The wheels turn
in the vegetable light. Pin wheels.
Somewhere inside me is
condensation, breath on
clear glass, thought hushing
the place where things stick,
where a mark is a diamond.
My hand is growing in the
grass, wondering itself in
the simple form that contains
everything. My name is not
my hand. Only the sun, falling
in sheets, patting my head,
patting my shoulder, knows
the name of each thing.
Each part is jigsawed to fit
somewhere, to hold itself
against another. We keep
coming back, the picture
grows clearer, the gaps
shrink and our resolve moves
across the ground.
Things fill in.
I see that it is moving inside
Something else. Evidence is
all around me. Something
green is scooting through
the tall grass. The wind is
such a puppeteer I think.
Now my hand is resting
just below the surface
holding everything like
A waiter with a tray
held high overhead,
about to serve.
05/2009
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