if you will

i want you to read what i’ve written, but only

only if you will admit that daisies and dandelions are related and that what i have written

is fine.  i offer small-stitched goats embroidered by a blind woman on yellow silk, careening 

wildly, a perpendicularly sideways perspective, and pale green tendrils to entwine, and

impossible brass keys with ambiguous purpose, maybe to the dull entries in diaries burned long ago
or maybe to nothing.  or to everything, if you read,

read through the raw bruised shine to the pulsing beneath, that gives meaning to my pulp,

that gives color to the backs of my hands, that is the clink of ice against the glass trap and a

full marrowed snap.  open and open and the words do not matter so much

i want you to read what i’ve written, but only

only if you can look past despite and into because.  if you will 

look squint through the eye of the needle at the camel staring back at you

and see possibility, look to where 

the rich man has been standing at the door of great,

cut, passed by, because.  then i want you to read what i have written