Beautiful Hour
I keep a copy of my work in the trunk,
in the bedroom, in my fat.
I’m the dark priest, the shaman
grafted in and out of the living dirt
and I’m going to love like my hands are two stars
moving over the cities I walk.
My skin is a copy of the skin I was born in
and I don’t know what it means,
but I know there is a good me,
fire in the forest, ribbon maker.
When I inventory the clothes, shoes,
endless seasons of shows, phone calls,
investment of plants and meat in my body,
I know my eyes reflect the images
I’ve seen and what remains inside is me.