Monday, December 20, 2010

Instinct

Oh, how sweet, how / tender the little shivering gosling, how it hooks / its heart to my hand without a second or even a first single thought. How sweet. But its tremble / calls a wisp of some hardness up out of me, some active and soon-sharpened blade, sparks / shooting from the space between what I call my whiteness and the self I won’t name.