[…]


Elizabeth Witte

This Fabric



Your eye is a horse’s
big and clear

next to all your skin.
Glass of water is a lake.

And the judge is my feet
when I stand at the stove.

Blink again your big eye.
We live here in this screen

of light beautiful,
curled against a stream

gathered up like a skirt
in crouch, watching.

The sound I’m crying from
the middle: not when youth was

drying on us but when we chewed
and hit our way across each yard

of this fabric, having built up
the strength.  The separation

of us starts where heads turn
at the behest of eyes at the beckoning

of brain, surrendered while negotiating
a storm.  Here, your big eye

next to mine
sleeping.


     
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