The World Will Make Outsiders of Us All If We Let It

Friday, July 15, 2022

I’m blood-hungry for touch,
            ferocious in the body,
            ferocious in my bones.

Winter’s syntax. Every day every night
            at home. Frost on the window,
            steam from the dryer vent,

the dormant orchid
            on the sill waiting to bloom.
            Icicles crack, hit the ground

with an urgency. And for a few moments
            the brilliant sun shines
            through a sliver of clouds.

Light snow shimmers like falling glitter—
            a last call for the party
            at the end of the world.

It has never been
            about finding my way
            but getting lost in that knowing.

The snow bends the boughs,
            dapples the light of your body
            which is the only light that matters.

Friday, July 15, 2022