I worry

I worry

That I sprawl

As lolling as the romping sky
Unsurmountable and finger thin and heavens high

I worry that Jupiter will always be away, as I chase it down the orbital plane
I worry that you will never speak Japanese, that I translate clumsily, that my words are old porcelain in a dry mouth, and Carollian, and strange.
I worry that you know me, that you don’t
That your honesty is not a kindness, that

It is.

I wonder the nature of a landing place.
Blanket, or cocoon, as the mind spins up in darkness,
Or a cool room, with new plaster or like clear bells tolling on and on and on in our congested cavities.

And here, there is sculptured softness that I serve, but there, now, is my soul and scrawling laugh seen with a held account,

With a level gaze.

For I am a girl of myrrh

And soft scents and bedroom jazz and kitchen waltz, and sometimes platitudes, and yours is the language of bat wings and steady footsteps through the house and to the bed and a slung over arm and laughing eyes.

And is it that you hear me, or am I echoing, or ultraviolet and unseen. But yet you offer a testament to seeing, and I

Accept it.