Illusioned

Look:

I once believed my blood ran blue in my body, just because my veins told me so. We keep telling ourselves little lies. We’re not supposed to believe them, but I do.

Look:

Tonight the moon is a sliver, a fingernail clipping. I decide that I want to make everything tiny and keep the world in my pocket.

Look:

In the mornings, every green thing hangs heavy with sweat.
I wipe the dew from the grass.
I tell it to stand up straight.
Imagine that–

Look:

Everything can be a polished stone if you want it. No lines no
sharp edges. Someday I will iron out
all the crevices and creases in the fiddle-leaf fig leaves,
in the palms of your hands,
in the microscopic mountain ranges that make up tree bark,
so I can run my finger over everything so smooth, so
that nothing splinters anymore.

Look:

I try to track where the steam goes as it rises. I want to watch it arrive.
I reboil the same water over and over until it creeps
down to a pale shadow huddled
in the bottom of the pot.
I cannot even recognize
my own footprints
in a bank of snow.
I just move
to move
to move
unseen.