I go to the park and sit under the sun. Everyone else is in pairs, pealing like bells.
As I’m drawing more and more

into myself, I’ve noticed the ease it seems people gather, hold hands. I don’t know anymore
what the story is that could save me. What to repeat 

as payment. Behind me, up the hill, men are talking about their dogs, how one has named his Oyster. 
And that’s the problem: I’m tired 

of studding myself in small facts. I want to peel myself and let you at me, let you debone me, let it feel like some real mess
we’re enjoying making. I imagine I could be like a grape—clear,

or nearly clear. The bees are in the grass 
like a search party, like planes low over a lake. 

There is a space somewhere inside me, some cavity like when a stone is wrenched free. 
If they’re looking for flowers, they’ll go hungry.