By Adrianne Oldham
I feel raw and juicy
like a new leaf
emerging into morning light
blinking,
disoriented
curves and spirals and angles:
Where are my edges?
This would be theater
or ballet.
Time signature lapses.
There must be a logic.
Have I form?
I stare. All I can,
as invisible darkness
channels lucid nourishment.
Day after day
I wait
for a certainty that never
seems to come.