Because I could see
the dark green something
lodged in my left upper arm the man
reading auras thought me gifted and asked me
back again. Because I have written his name
on my left forearm and the last 4 digits of
his phone number, you
touch me there, the skin turns
under your first two fingers and
dark green something jumps
to the place my breath starts
when it is starting.
Can I say three things, you said,
and promise you won’t be mad.
Would you like some more coffee?
I am thinking about you.
I am thinking about—
Because a disc of birds takes West Manhattan in the
morning,
the world moves at this speed.
Do you know that feeling, you said,
when every part in you wants to run?
I was young enough when my grandmother died
that I cannot number her failures.
Because I cannot number her failures
I carry her name.
Dark green something at
the center of ourselves. Light green something
in the sky. If you stand up fast enough
