*
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.
