This is me; stroking the back of a grasshopper to read your fortune,
This is me; cutting the veins from my arms and lacing them to make a net
To trap scores of butterflies hopeless in fog.
This is me; spreading my toes out and in so I don’t fall.
Into the abyssal mess they call forgotten.
This is me; lying and lying and linking in letters of salt.
I am sighing not singing when the boy plays the piano so well.
So so well. He runs his keys up my shoulders and rumbles my neck with his chords.
This is me; reaching out with tweezers into thick-as-dough shadows, attempting a hold.
Weightless and swallowing lead.
This is me; a wire figure on a table edge – stuck upright with tac.
This is me; breathing my secrets into the ear of a crow
But they catch on the feathers and stay.
Then they fly.
And my nets are too heavy with insects to trap them back.
And I read the grasshopper too hard and
Break its back on the heart-line.