| OCR Text |
Show Poem for my mother who wishes she were a lilypad in a Monet painting We're in a gray tree (you and I). Lunging into an orange-not eating it. I'd like nothing better than to come to another kind of arrangement; mostly, though, we just don't come apart. Behold a single contractual mark to possess and to withhold (contractions), and the dialogue within the dialogue that began before it. Black seeds on a white dish (pores) The sound of your voice has always been a fragment organized as a flower, a tin can cling-clanging upstream, the spaces between my heartbeats lengthening (like shadows); You a part of the tough rubbery vine that expands on the skin of the pond. |
