what I bring to you is not my body, but horses
running through a city. we look toward the factory
smoke, the streets seen as if from salt prints.
I speak of the homeless man in the train station,
his cheek against glass, how others veered
from him, as if his body was a Rorschach image
of an unlit city, milk-light weakening against
his hard hands. what I bring to you are not
my hands, but a photograph of hands. what I whisper
in the palm house is not a language, but salt, ferns,
a field where I walk to knowing I will not return.