Working Backwards

All I wanna do is be held, but those arms
straighten and wander.
Instead of ironing the stress out in the bathroom
I sit with it, let
the frustration settle
like snow
absorbing the voice,
I make an angel out of the space
in my corner of the room.

I drink my discipline and get to work
wondering about all the material I don't cover,
all the nerves that aren't under my hands,
and the numbers
turn to leaves
in the autumn, the smell
of a path I promised Robyn we’d wander.

The snow doesn’t melt because the silence is lingering,
but the wind quiets in my head.

My eyes turn smooth like black stones
tumbling from someone's open hand,
almost splashless, into the silence
of cool still water of a lake.
A blind body resting on the bed finds light
and suddenly I can see again.