You offer me the sweet box
of your room and I say No.

That I’m a twiner, rooftop
inclined, that I want to watch the sun

roll out like a lavender cabbage.
I admire you epiphitically

which is to say I use you
to get closer to the light.

Hook, suck, coil—even the blue
tattoo on your back like a well

in ragged, barren country.
Cataclysmic thirst, you can’t

say it enough. I think you’ve
had some lean, dry years

and I imagine if your boots
were removed there would be feet

so fragile a mother might carry you
home and plant them in the knowing

ground, unknowing.