I keep asking myself a question
or something like myself a question
the being that exists in the tension between what I feel should be right
and everything I see
Where are you?
I think the answer is strung together
between the piecemeal scraps of poems and thoughts
I’ve etched into my ribs
or the walls of my mind
or my bathroom mirror
Some patchwork quilt of warming embers and
wounds kept open too long
I’d like to wrap it about your shoulders
my favourite cloak for your December chills
and maybe you’ll help me weave them together
when your hands unthaw
enough to guide mine
