We are not here to understand
it all: nothing is as it is,
Who is to say what the
moon does to the eye
or why the jacarandas
swell with fat April bees,
So I have been
and I have not been
Like a dream in which I
sleep with my clothes on.
If my one hand strokes the face of the world; the other wraps
itself around its throat. Call me by any name. O mirror,
tangle of trees that won’t
stop flowering. Saddle me
in your arms. Divide me
with a knife and kiss my mouth. Make me