I’m without shadows, black snake. Pure, like a March gift,
And lucent as blueness.
My million spirits convince me of god.
Each eye, taking pleasure
In the finger-length arm and leg,
Cheeks apprehending hope,
From cloud to stone
Floating. Limpid as rising
Angels. They turned on winter –
My, you bent like a twig
Among perfectly-chiseled bird feet – drops
Of expressionless dew slept on.
I pour myself
Skyward again. You inch among black rocks.
I know what to make of my soul-shift:
It’s a mica-bud, of course:
And you dull, without fluid, scaled.