I decided to let things wash over
like glitter, which doesn't
wash, but scrubs
into paradox
between the ends
of *******
not touching

I'd like to tender again.

I punctuate the days
with water and fill my stomach
with seeds, inchoate
and young.
I don't have to be today
what I desire tomorrow.
Still, I indulge,
beneath its question,
in the period,
before its deluge,
in the holm. Root
into malleability: an island
passing through time.

I'd like to be again.

I'll walk with a dove on my shoulder:
wary of the wings;
weary of the fall;
the beating
that comes before
the flight.

I'd like to be tender again.