DEAR ELIZABETH, I SOMETIMES THINK OF YOU AS A NEW KIND OF NOISE.
Or not a noise but a thing from which the noise can come. A little three
pronged tuning fork. Your tone is ankle crack, is wrung from treetops cased
in week-old ice. If only your metal stems could inspect my skin. My skin so
warm and slick with oils. My appetite is wingspan, is pollen dusted skyline.
DEAR ELIZABETH, WILL YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN IF I SAY MY BOXFIRE
breaks quickly? That it splinters into small gaps? The colors swell too slowly
to enjoy. When it is over, there is a sifting. A clearing away of. Soon enough
there is simply me again, staring at my hands. Waiting for something whole
to press its weight into my skin.