4,151 Readings

You Make Me Touch Your Hands for Stupid Reasons

The air is the same
as when three-toed horses
walked the earth, tender on the rocks.
The river interrupts the land, and the black dots
on the hillside, the far away
or the tiny, might be people,
might be ruptured
protein in the eyes’ reversed image.
Where are you?
Sleeping, I am as I left myself
but without my ID. I cannot find my shoes.
This happens when my nerves mistake
the left for the ceiling, when I grow new skin
in response to the Midwest’s unending horizon.
There was something you were holding carefully.
Please feel free to imagine
a standard baby
bird or a rabbit with its eyes still closed,
curled in a broad poem.
I am uncomfortable
with generosity,
have no respect for fragility,
regularly mistake the heart’s content
for the whole of the heart’s contents.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
Why there are no signs of habitation.
No one deserves what they deserve.
I would like you to return to this landscape.
If I rebuild the house from a blueprint of feathers.
If to the specifications of memory on waking.
I have a scrim we can light to the desired opacity.
I will wear whatever costume does it for you.
I am ordering a backdrop that looks good
with your eyes.
Posted 11/07/11
Books by Rebecca Hazelton
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