Like alone is sweetness,
down without cause,
belief might warn my eyes,
its water half-light if it gets too brief;
maybe hope’s inside a halo.
I see a long incident —
gestation’s liar on its own:
mothers cross this history
and blink the water’s memory,
surrounding insects with ribbons.
Her horizon couldn’t bark friendship; it’s a noose
passageways sew me, developing grey
thistles in crevices.
I am exoskeleton,
made by Mother herself,
a salt-turning hindsight into splinters,
following her measured grip.
I am silver with no dexterity
trying to pleat and breathe beauty,
scattering my eyes,
transparent with practise,
I choose the hidden
in pleasing rain, a side of inside,
which withstands repeatedly
as if I am not tawny.
Mrs. Sky is kind, something of an embellishment —
a tendon-reflex if she dresses death;
“first leaves red-veined as ever” is where I go … for scent
they also lie.
I trust nourishment as I would the thin air,
which I wear carelessly
while most of the imploring drone
when tunnelling measurement
with spiralling eyes if I can see their distant
wings rising the narrow;
like my exoskeleton,
my own withstands.
My mother dresses me in salt.
What I own are transparent thistles,
because she sews the halo
into tawny grip ever seasonal.
Yet couldn’t she implore the wind
— its beauty if and to itself —
like an insect with good eyes?
— as my cross is belittled, passages cannot be trusted.
Mrs. Ribbon is History,
and I wear her
carelessly like a noose;
your friendship a gestation,
a mother of will.