a sign language instructor for trees,
and getting National Security to stop
monitoring steel bands.
We are having a rally next Friday.
It's about the breath of fresh roses in our tombs.
I needed to find
behind the mirror,
high tides full of clocks.
His house had caught on fire.
I offered my sky dome
and a macramé hammock.
He cut the moon's stem
and rode off with my sun lilies
all within a week. Like god
in his perpetual dawn.
God, with a herbarium.
And What If
and what if the clothes
don't fit with comfort, does it matter,
or is it a matter of why? what if I sit and quietly
wait for the sun to return to my eyes,
eyes that have swum in steam where roses
loosen their oils. what else could I do?
and what if I collect teardrops, which I do,
what kind of misty river would you see?
what if my shadow finds the wind
that brought us together. I could borrow