Passion. Simplified.
Do you know me? I know you, match-head.
Razor made and tracing fingertips along
what you've raised. I know
artificial light. I know the tree
on the hillside you alone have seen,
have gone to, have touched and pressed fingertips
between black leaves of curling bark.
I know the leaves you've held to your nose
and crushed until the green came wet and cold
and slicked the creases along
the undersides of your fingers.
Do you know me? I know you, match-head.
The signs, razor made. The might untold.
The hum that only that hill makes,
days looking after it first spoke
in bass. From twelve miles off.
The next time I go,
the sky hard,
I will dig you a hole. There is,
inside of it, a thing I would like you to have
while you walk and breath and hold your hand
up to the sun, fingers spread for shade.
Inhaling and pollen and tooth and severed,
and silent, brought up
from the same grasses.
