Had the light
changed, possibly—or,
differently, was that how I'd
seen it
always, and not
looking? Was I meant for
a vessel? Did I only
believe so and,
so, for a time, was it true but
only in that space which belief makes
for its own wanting?
What am I going to
do with you
—Who just
said that?
Whose the body—where—that voice
belongs to?
Might I turn,
toward it, whinny
into it?
My life
a water,
or a cure for
that which no water
can cure?
His chest
a forest, or a lush
failure—
Even now, shall I choose? Do I
get to?
Dearest-once-to-me
Dearest-still-to-me
Have I chosen
already,
or is choice a thing
hovering yet, an
intention therefore, from
which, though
late, could I hurry back?
What am I going to do with you— or
how?
Whom for?
If stay my hand—where
rest it?
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