now
that the hands
can tell carnations
from wood
& the feet
also understand
the soothing
of clay
please
let me confess
that i love
the meek welcome
of the morning
waking me up
to the numbed noises
of fledglings
now that
the mind is
an ocean of calm
waves
& the chest as light
as a lint soaring
into the lure
of air
please let
me confess that i
love the midafternoon
scent of salt
drying sharp
on the ripening
olive
of my brow
now that they
are the sudden lull
of shuddering
skin
& the prolonged hush
of lips
that mimic
strange words
please let me
confess that i love it
when the night
falls
for the fleeting
dance of the sunset
or the moment
of moths
