You are not the shell that shines on my table. You are not
the pillow of my hands.
You are not the metallic taste in my mouth
when I wake
(though you could be those threads
running underneath my tongue).
I doubt you are the strands of hair that survived
on my windowsill
(that lost their lustre).
Though you could be the windowpane itself, which
allows me the view of the sky;
the interesting birds.
(You are not the birds).
You are not hidden in bone, you do not bloom
in the marrow.
You are (in my opinion) not the rain in July
that studs my scalp.
(But you might be the heat pressing
against my body
when I struggle to sleep).
You are not the sacred cow, a murmur in the heart
or blood-spit in the sink.
If I open my book you might well be the moth’s
wing dashed on the page.
You are not the hand of God on an incoherent
But yes, I think you might be that moment
when the clouds ripen
(just before the rain,
before it hits the cloth of my shirt,
my cold hands).