like blood from a turnip,
like a sword from a stone.
It purrs my restless heart,
evens my jaggedy, craggy,
Were there ever another composite in my furtive brow,
my angular eyebrow, my deep, deep heart,
it would pain me.
For the sheer innovation
of this moment, as you cook,
your back turned to me,
like a yurt
on the grassy plains outside Ulan Bataar,
the singular granularity of green
in my imaginative soul,
the creative violence
of captured imagination, of memory.
For all the clumsy stabs
at placating emotions, mounds of
barren placebos thrown in a deep dank well,
sleepless nights, twittering and electric, have led me to this.
This sun, this day, this soaring mind,
streaming the earth below for fodder, for food;
If ever you were mine, yet you are mine.
Mine is not me; for I am you.