I’m stretched into a corner. Hands searching to rest but I continue to stand. Then sit. Then stand again. I’m reminded of Whitman…I know I am restless and make others so…
Where do I reflect? I am pools of hazel, arms and legs tangled in air, softened and easy under your gaze, trembling and yet languid in my breath.
I see nothing but this moment in front if me, these hands plunging into dirt, the way I feel when I lie back on the uncut green grass. Anyone could tell you I’ve got you scratched into my skin, released into the air, laughing at my truth.
As I lay with my head in your lap…
Here I sit, dreaming of the sea.