I did not use you.

You
untapped mystery.

Your
pail of water.

Your
knowledge of astronomy.

I am philistine
to a fault &

seek chaos
in everything.

If dad
is god, is he

here
now.

There is a wound
only you see.

These are private questions.

If I describe the theft,
it will sound like a flower,
and that isn’t my intention.

Blue hydrangeas everywhere.

Once a year,
the wound,
like an orchid,

buds, sings, and rots.

How does it feel?
Like rabbits—

Long white beard,
language blockade.

As good as using the flaw for my eyes.

Where do you feel it?
Under my fingers, in the leaves—