That’s still young.
That rolls over roofs
tipping evening into night.
That ties laces guilelessly,
hangs itself on breathless water.
That pours as the warmth
wraps itself sluggishly around the houses.
That clambers in droplets,
climbs like hail.
That yearns like the earth
that awaits growing,
the basket that longs to hold cats.
That glows like a red, clammy skin,
like afternoon in summer.
The water cannot match the thirst,
rivers pour inside,
streams burst mouths open.
That snaps the seams
that bind us
and breaks loose.
That spurs on the morning.
It darts, and the tiles hold fast.
Walls suck. From the corner of your eye
you can even see the cupboard move.
That turns about and tumbles.
That lays itself down in life.
In a wet land it would be called
the shimmering of the sun, the open air
in demand of attention, life outside the body.
In the dryness it bubbles up
like water from a spring,
swirling down stairs.
That forgets that in her body
the seed of age lies dormant.
That is infinite in her wastage.
That gurgles like an impassable path.
Like gravel in water,
like summery, rustling reed.
That calms like water in the bowl.
The swell subsides,
we look on almost amazed.
It orbited an unfindable axis,
casting all inward.
It had settled like a tick
under the skin,
clawed the paws raw.
It could lay the sun in stripes on the windowsill,
stretch until the underbelly almost brazenly emerged.
It could be black, as well as artful.
It could trot on tiptoe through the house,
steal under sofas and, in a moment of recklessness,
into unexpected cracks.
It used roses to suckle milk,
strawberries for a soft breath
and birdseed when contractions came
and so the mother insincerely
wrapped her arms around the baby,
then it roared.
After months, it raised itself,
walked up and down the stairs.
We had to admit
how slow our legs are.
We wanted to tell all,
but tottered on the tongue.
We left our cares on the draining board,
threw windows open, sniffed loudly inland.
We’ve started to think the hours no longer count.