i don’t think i have
what i want. that used wool
coat, heather gray and rich
with dreams, it will probably insulate me
from my lack. the woman
with the black hair, or
maybe it’s auburn, she will
fulfill me. i do not have
what i want. the seed i planted
yesterday, yes, maybe
it has bloomed. its stalk did not take
me from my desire, i must have been sold
wrong. i think
if i wear a heather gray coat, woolen
and with pockets that button, then
i will be able to attract the woman with
the red hair, blonde hair, white hair. and
she will give me what i do not have.
she stands over me, sleep still
clotted about my dream-spun eyes. her hair
falls around her bare shoulders.
the bedroom is cold, i look
to wooden chair by small window,
heather gray woolen coat slung upon it.
she buries her hands to the wrist, in
the bird cage of my torso. spreading
her shoulder blades, she too spreads mine.
i watch the bird as it flutters, still
slick from its cage. i watch
the heather gray woolen coat get up
out of its chair. together,
bird and coat of buttoned pockets,
they work the small window ajar.
inhaling room brings warm air into
the cold chamber, through the escape
hatch of window. bird sits
for a moment to dry. heather gray
woolen coat waits. threads of wool
slough off, imperceptibly adding
to dander’d life. she shifts her shoulders,
bringing them again back together, bringing
me again back together. our shift
prompts bird to leave. woolen coat follows.
she removes her hands from
my empty bird cage, dries them
slowly on her loose cotton shirt.
her hair flames in a brief shout of sun,
finding its way through cloud cover and
window’s pain. her hair is golden
and it is inkspill. it is bear brown
and spruce tip green. her shoulder blades
are set into the meat of her back.
my caged torso closes with the confident click
of expensive German automobile
driver’s side door.
a woolen coat
to insulate me,
to sing to me,
to fill me with breath.
how might i distinguish
the color of my own