I look for you in the air in the living room,
in the overstuffed files of my brain,
along languid rivulets of doubt and sorrow,
that lead from the lake that is my true home
somewhere across fields of poppies and chamomile.
Suddenly you arrive in beads of sweat,
in my argument with a broken fingernail.
I am exhausted, I capitulate
and ramble like spilled grapes
across the kitchen floor.
You write in lines across my palm,
Touch that which is touching,
bear this lightly,
know the binding-dust.
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