Two Selves in Springtime
       

Two selves dry myself with the moveable lawn. Two selves
wash myself in the slow rainbow air. Two of me do, and excused
from me, triple, like blindness that comes at the peak
of keen seeing. The blind thing inside me has

buttercup hands. The wheel of those hand-cups
turns once and then falters. I'm bitter. It's springtime.
Your voice fills the boondocks. Inside me, that blind thing
is riding a chill.

You make a triplet of souls on my thought-scape. You make
the often I think of you different. Difficult. Daffodils.
Dizzying. Rum. The tendril of which leads my bird-self
to wail, sucking the air through its beak drain

in space. A sky's blip it is! In which non-blips are giant!
Which discloses my selfs in a series of blips!
Disclosure to you, dear dogwood, dear daisy. Disclosure,
dear Doppler, in the suddenly dusk. It's muddy as

I push myself through the water. I leave a mark
for to track myself later. Within which, the previous me
pokes the rain air. Within what's revenge of the seeing itself

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Copyright © 2015 Lauren Haldeman All rights reserved
from Fourteen Hills
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission