Stalemate by Joanie Mackowski

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