the itch I have is like the bird I see
in flight, for beginning on the ground
of my forearm, in the grassy hairs
it rises into the arbour of my chest
the concave sternum I wish that she
were deep inside, studying its dimensions
like a room warmed hydronically
by the blood my heart issues
and recalls after so truncated a journey –
then to the shoulder branches
I scratch as a breeze might
ruffle its outer feathers
through a canopy porous with holes
between its sunburnt foliage –
up to the heights of my neck
the tip of my nose, a nodule
a meridian the tree made some attempt
to overtop, but had no leavening left
until, from the crown of my short hair
it takes to the gloomy skies
and I take up my pencil.
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