The World Will Make Outsiders of Us All If We Let It
I’m blood-hungry for touch,
ferocious in the body,
ferocious in my bones.
Winter’s syntax. Every day every night
at home. Frost on the window,
steam from the dryer vent,
the dormant orchid
on the sill waiting to bloom.
Icicles crack, hit the ground
with an urgency. And for a few moments
the brilliant sun shines
through a sliver of clouds.
Light snow shimmers like falling glitter—
a last call for the party
at the end of the world.
It has never been
about finding my way
but getting lost in that knowing.
The snow bends the boughs,
dapples the light of your body
which is the only light that matters.
