VII

My slow feet slid across night-cobbled streets

Through silty swamps and grey-cloaked constellations;

Starkly naked in the drinking dark. 

My blind steps straying off the course,

My lips: not braced for strike, 

and saying all of the vulnerable things

To glasses of water, and thieves alike. 

A white-hot bud of useless thunder rumpled loudly through me. 

I wandered, hips and knees and grace and and map-less, somehow, 

Came to this place.

I have so many unwritten letters:

You could pluck me from a winter vine 

And intertwine with me. 

But if you leave me,

Warmly, fiercely free,

I will grow 

Into a glowing apple.