The trouble is,
everything calls to me.
 
The peacock with the red eye
glares her knowing. The red fletch
of the sandhill crane rises
like a flag in an unknown field.
The hummingbird grows large,
dances emerald infinity.
 
The wolf pursues the bear,
splits the shadow of pine and flashes
yellow teeth—and I do not turn away,
pursued by my own violent
reverence.
 
I dream of oceans and sink
to their center, into perfect squares
of coral reef. I become an oyster at work
on a precious secret. When I surface,
I gleam.
 
I could make the horizon pulse,
with just the turn of my head.
 
I wake up with other languages
in my mouth: acer negundo,
acer negundo.
 
With strange collaborations
in my throat: magpied fields,
magpied fields.
 
And I swallow every one.
 
Do not wake up next to me,
whispering: Too much,
too much.
 
Never say it is too much.
 
Tell me it is only human—
to wish for someone to believe
in the myth of you.