will you be concerned with
me? your carpet’s pressuremark
tells more than my weight. domesticity
is not ours to speak of. a thousand
tablespoons of saying I was
flattered and still it does not translate
into sugar, psychosis or sin. 
will you be unfoundedly finding
wherever you look a want
and refuse its simple request
for warmth or tea? green will mold
itself to any ceramic fault.
things steep, and verbs —
like invitations — may be
declined. it doesn’t work, pasting
ill-fitted pieces together
in humidity. I admit I am
a problem. a naiad ever
first-daying out of her bog —
swampland she can’t sell or sing
away. will you search out
damp footprints while making
grassdog rounds through house and
dewy yard? your eyes will
seize eyes without hint of doubt
in some glass frame, and gasp,
but yours is not the floor I tread
or curl upon. when I lie —
and I do and have — it is across
fields wet with stars, their space
enough to spare.

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