Your steel, your wiry resolve; your constant
hunger to eat. The flutter in your chest

like that of a wind-up bird. Your hands
in mittens—so as to keep the skin 

safe from that tendency of raking.
Your midnight escapes and rescues.

Your ghost, long ago, of the kitchen 
table; her hidden envelope of poison 

in a coffee cup—a ghost calling her own 
cab! Your secrets like pinpricks of light

signaling from the depths of wells
in your eyes. Your broad expanse, 

those rumored farmlands pieced 
like quilts of shantung silk. You flail

and rally, rally and flail, heart like a bud
fenced in a blown glass vase. You raise

in your hand an invisible baton and cue
the chorus. You order the ferryman

to rest his oars. Along the banks, incredible
foliage bursting still, at this time of year.

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