By: Julia Knowlton
Your desire and failing light are the same. If I could
I would make tea leaves out of you; to read.
Their amber odor sweet. My private book.
Your slightest look easily will unclose me, cummings
mused, strolling around Paris, confabulating la bohème.
Would I read something like that? Or would lines
bitter and tingle, just like a fork’s tines?
I know how to arrange you, because memory is one huge paraphrase.
After reading you as tea leaves, I might leave.
Coming to a place unbound by your touch.
(The more you touch me, the less you will know me).
If I stay, barrel shapes of light might begin to spill—