Don't you understand?
Do you think I never think
Or that I have no time for
Wanting or needing or
Realizing the expanse of my failure?
Why needle me so
When the needles are my own and
Your jabs are so clumsy
Can you comprehend your hands:
Where they end and I end with them
Pressing into empy air and shaping it as if
I could be made from need, and tangibility
Could be achieved on command?
When have I ever been tangible?
You feel you must collect me
As you would collect raindrops in a bucket―
Combine me with sand,
Build me and burn me solid in the sun,
Until you crumble it with those fumbling hands
That shouldn't have been so skilled,
Couldn't have been so soft,
To sculpt me at all.
Why fall at all, when I know the sun
Will take me up again, diffuse
And terrified of the dizzying heights?
Why fall at all, when I know the memories
Will splinter off, missed and forgotten
Raindrops, eaten by dust?
The artless grasping of your hands
And the form I would never
Make for myself
That fragile sandstone gaol
That graces me with tangibility, and
With dimension, and with your hands
And fly again
I know you can't touch me