/ 
you stand small with golden music like insects marching humming
the shivering saxophone and millions of bells and calls and delicate wings
your little bird hands reaching for warm black cherries
in washed wallpaper blue sky, you stepping lightly on the roof
you, ice cream soft, clothes hanging loose, you
put together like a shaking song
nothing in your face has gone out
you strum and pluck and pick and soften and make sudden
curves of charcoal on thin paper with light flickering on
somewhere in your dark bright eyes, somewhere under your fingers,
you make the space under your eyes shine and your mouth plum colored
the familiar sounds like velvet dust and rust and sun
cherries dripping from the trees, leaves underfoot on the warmed roof
or, shoelaces tucked and untied, fumbling with keys
we walk to iowa and in the ground you see the feet of headless birds
your whole face catches the light
and i can never hold my breath
/