small and inspired
There is a soft thing,
A whisper of leaves and trees which would shudder and
A glinted shiver off these aged curtains.
And again, there is a time
(larger than a second, smaller than
when I am alone and this small thing
takes the form of white skin,
This man, he is
Nothing more than a thought of unrecorded brilliance— as the awakened thrill of figured vocals on the ear.
He is a ghosted figure, an open-ended vein
(though he is not yet leaking).
When he speaks, he is almost tangible:
Here. See this
Grass? These trees? Take these colors and
Take the sky and twist it for the flavor.
Under my fingers, these words,
He is breathing.