So take, for joy’s sake, this wild gift of mine.
This uninviting desiccated necklet
Made of dead bees that once turned honey into sunlight.
Touches were newspapers
tucked and benched in Riverside.
Would I borrow from homeless men
their worn coats–bare threads
or gouge from darkened pigeons’ roosts
their salty hearts and by osmosis glide
or hold quartz second-hands?
It was obscure to me then.
Caresses were fries and battered oysters
dropped in Fulton Marketplace.
Would I pray for rags and bones
cemented in grave pools by river tides?
Brooklyn Bridge is damp and dry
but at the ends its cables are opaque.
So let me give you, for the sake of time,
these mites or lice or bedbugs
pinched from hairless hide. Take them–
white knuckles, bug scrawls,
death-defying lapses, synaptic leaps,
this dry mulch kiss–felt necklace strung with ink.
12 March 2012