The poem grows out of the words like a weed.
It does not recognize the borders of letterforms.
Your voice is the sound of your hands finding me
In a dream. Creating my body as they go.
The poem’s tendrils wind over and around each other
Always in a clockwise motion, like time.
Each reader is a rainfall on a spring night.
The words are not gone but are forgotten.
Even the green tangle is ignored
For the flowers floating like open hands.
Each reader is an insect, on a busy mission.
Will they come away with something?
The reader stops and looks at her hands.
She rubs them together, and a word comes to mind.