What are you thinking?
Of phonemes or fire,
my feet in your lap, the trembling lip
of the coffee cup,
or aren't you sure?
Perhaps you're not who
I thought you were;
perhaps my body here,
pressing down on you: horizon
for flying. I wonder
if your brain's a bird,
an oily crow
that flaps to the tops
of the poplar trees,
its storm eye condensing me
(or just what remains
then, glint and shadow)to a strand of tinsel.
And through those binoculars
where the saddest colors
in the veins of my wrist
twist a gnarled oak,
your brain with its blue veer,
a leaf in its beak,
builds a nest in my hand
(an uncertain ledge
in an unsteady land).
from the book, "View From A Temporary Window" by Joanie Mackowski