STAY


I want to feel your daffodils.
A phrase escaped from a dream,

 

one eye shuts. Focus. I fumble the buttons
if the tape recorder on the floor

 

beside my bed. There are no other words.
But there is urgency. I must clasp

 

my mind around the stroke of each letter
before the emotion drifts

 

away. I want to feel your daffodils. I trip
free of the tub,  mumbling like a lunatic.

 

My legs, my back.
A conniption of rivers

 

racing toward the floor. I find pen
but no paper. Then paper, but no ink.

 

Shake the pen. Curse whatever god
is handy. I want to feel

 

your daffodils. Each time, the words seem
like a present I don’t deserve.

 

More reason to believe
that this time is the last. I want

 

to feel your daffodils. This is what it means
to be a servant of breath.