Deliverer of ice and abandon,
Bringer of sweets and old rind,
Maker of burnt grass and pipes,
wire, black tire pond and larvae,
What am I to make when brick
is neither form nor rock nor mould?
I draw a picture of a bird as there is no bird,
a wife as there is no wife,
a boot as there is no boot —
but a flight and a breath and a shoe.
The one is gold and finched.
The one is bliss, heartburn and inched low
back to flesh sudden — in a blue robe
on a green couch, in a pink house,
and sips her coffee slow, coughs,
spins her crackling ankle.
I am whole again, by God,
because she smiles, and the yellow bird flits.
But in the absence of a foot,
that boot is nothing but the possibility,
however improbable, inconclusive,
inconceivable, that I too have legs.
Perhaps, I am nothing but a vapor. A steam,
caught momentarily between the glass eye of a bird,
the green eye of a girl, and the black well
of an empty boot.