Emerald Spider Between Rose Thorns

Imagine, not even or really ever tasting

a peach until well over 50, not once

sympathizing with Blake naked in his garden

insisting on angels until getting off the table

and coming home with my new heart. How absurd

to still have a body in this rainbow-gored,

crickety world and how ridiculous to be given one

in the first place, to be an object

like an orchid is an object, or a stone,

so bruisable and plummeting, arms

waving from the evening-ignited lake,

heading singing in the furnace feral and sweet,

tears that make the face grotesque,

tears that make it pure. How easy

it is now to get drunk on a single whiff

like a hummingbird or ant, on the laughter

of one woman and who knew how much I’d miss

that inner light of snow now that I’m in Texas.