what do you want?
you said it was the visible, the commendable, the clap-on-the-back-able
but why is a part of you in famine?
you know you are technicolour, so why accept grey?
the curiosity is there, ridiculed, more or less, to seclusion along the edges
but the walls are paper and the boxes you have placed me in wet cardboard
so I write, to draw you out, to pencil your shape, to give you voice, even if what has been spoken is submerged
it’s the imprint of your foot in wet sand, the details etched into what we call moon, the salt washed from skin and the square of sunlight that settles on your bare forearm at twilight
where is it your mind is so eager to rush to? to paint with fingers what you label reality only to find that the paint is chalk, tainted, and the picture dark mist and haze
are you not light? do you not see in deep sunlight, in the belly of goldfish, in lime rind and the juice of berries?
you are safe. you have all the permission you could ever need. your hawk is twitching to soar
what do you want?