I'm thinking of putting a picture
of a bed over my bed
with my need for decision
filled with wood in an open shed.
Faith in the river-blue raft of your lung
is a laundered shoe, an animal heart
foreign to the confetti that makes you.
I see a man brushing to loosen his gums
return the bandages to the surgeon's bowl.
I don't believe, scared enough to read.
I should go ahead in the pretense
of this word 'madness,' and say I think
the act of reading, the need to read is madness.
I see two daughters wanting to know
who owns this land. The bee's hummed
answer inside a delicate breakfast
like a stray marigold feeding your
reconciliation, as you score
the bones you drive by.