You have a cardboard box.
With tape still on it,
as you recently tore it open.
Now, as I am invited into exchanges of
many words both heavy and feathered,
I see the light brown box with miasmas of
empty warehouses and utilitarian goods creep out.
And with precise, subtle movements you
begin to maneuver it around my language.
In which, the flesh of it turns sallow
In which, the heartbeat of it becomes murmured
In which, the belief in its livelihood scatters all around my feet
Why do I fold at your passive questioning?
Why do I waver at your beam-like perception?
Why do I stand with one leg suspended,
while the other quivers to remain grounded in your presence?
All this is subliminally transmitted between you and me.
All this is left untouched and unresolved.
Could you ask me with a heart that desires to understand and believe?
Could I interrupt your isolated, silent formulations and tell you to listen?
Must I strip for your lazy eyes to see?
Must I weakly doubt what you have weakly accused?
Shall I, I shall speak truthfully
not with trepidation of what I may or may not possess
And may you, you may speak truthfully
not with hidden labyrinths that require me to walk through,
Fold that box up
Lay it on the ground
And I’ll invite you to sit on it with me
As I tell you stories that will cause tears and unruly joy