I'm sick of a few buried rats in the garden
they had gnawed their way in
the cherry juice and the Philipino grocer
the stories of New York which I am so sick of hearing
the leather jackets and the subway
Bloom me into full view
for I am about to go lengthwise
not dead but levitating
greased up and ready for the fryer
Place me in the palm of the hand of Jesus
I've been needing to be seen
as if I am a mirror and a misquito
crushed into a parasitic relationship
with time and space
feel me until I am green as a new bud in the Spring
but it's winter
and I am looking for
my ice skates