I want to stop being so human,
low to the ground, dragging this
bag of bones around, udder with nothing
left to give, no memory of grip pull twist squeeze,
how it lets the inside out. I want to stop
making my way through the day
like I'm a shim. Want to forget about the mallet
driving the shim, climb the highest tree in town,
settle on a branch that can barely hold me,
encouraging the slenderer branches
higher up: Prick the firmament,
bleed down a sample of beyond.
I want to leave the cellar I've packed full
behind me, squinting as I would to see someone
coming toward me from faraway, blurring
the orange and yellow leaves, the few trees still green,
softening the world, merging the seldom merged,
valley and city and river reclining
like paint-spackled nudes.
I want to channel the Gustav Klimt
Gustav Klimt always wanted to be,
to turn osprey, owl, or crow, marveling
at the surprising ease of flight, joints
cracking in places where I never imagined
I could bend.