i've taken your arms from loose water,
moved your hips from oblique
angles into mine, handed you syllables
for eight years that were full of
all the glitter i could find. i waited for
you to see how one hundred
rocks thrown at once will make water
pull itself apart, or that most
peculiar shores are born in silver and
wax. i waited because glitter
is only cut once. we pour it into our
palms and unravel it into thin
air; nothing that sits still can explain
light, so i ran to give you the
white birthday candles, drew a quick
coral sky to cut out and place
over your eyes in winter, tore vellum
fog from your eyes in strips.
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