This first true tear in a page
is my freedom to be more brutal and more liberal.
Bitter flow, foaming shouts, flowers on a darkening street.
The way words work between chubby fingers,
the work words do in the world,
words work on the world like lipstick,
chicken soup, nausea, and unexplained explosions,
often all at once.
I imagine myself dancing in black hot pants and boots,
wild and uninhibited. I also imagine myself as aloof
as everyone else. Somewhere in between is my song.
Time is a dwarf, a cut flower.
I will lose myself in the matching and choosing.
I will enter and be entered, and my face
will glow. Sweet smells will rise
from my fingers because it is no sin to uncover nakedness
before the beloved and I am here
to love you.