From above
I can see her hands turning the valve,
letting the nozzle sneeze on their home.
I can see him stroke her hair’s curved shine
of opal trees and rope.
I can see legs, if they are sitting—
but more easily when making love.
I can see the openings of leaves and palm trees,
the boiling soups on stoves.
But no eyes or emotion, unless things are flung—
unless they scream skyward, or cry hunched.
Time gets shortest at six-thirty and noon.
And tracks are best seen after movement.
From above, their clocks are only variations
of horizontal lines.
| María Cristina Hall |
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