Ophelia in May
Cassiopeia caught in the cartilage of thumbs,
arms and legs take the shape of constellations,
movable, changing in the lightening blue afternoon
afterward conversation, burnt as too many matches
on fingernails, the thinnest hairs sprout on arms,
memories fat from time-hunger, bloated on boats
un-boarded, those oceans, mapping movements by
nautical navigation, I sip at the light until I'm drunk on it,
evasive, we stretch words out sparsely, taking hours just to
release one sentence, saying red sky at night sailors delight,
thinking about the water in my eyes, thinking that flowers
don't grow up from factory floors, can't petal-pluck decisions
controversial, and I said – let me go, to no one save the empty room.