it’s my fault, though. i know it. you aren’t to blame
when conversation transitions from the brimming rippling surface
of tea in a trembling china cup,
shaking itself almost orgasmically to dregs
like mud soiling the porcelain,
drained of any potential;
when my eyes begin to gauge the curve of your shoulder
to determine whether it is fit to leap over into whatever depth lies beyond,
it isn’t your fault. i promise.
you are not guilty of sculpting me as a figure
too large and ungainly to balance on marble bases,
too angular to sit pleasantly at home
in a gallery of smooth small shapes–
i should have been constructed of granite, made tough enough
to scrape the gentle palms of passing purveyors.
i don’t blame you for any of this
it is only that you are cool, clean,
soft like the green things in the garden beneath your fingers, so tender,
stroking life into their cells–
you are content here on the ground in your paradise
while i struggle capricious and flighty toward sky.
it’s my fault that i can’t be still and gaze upward
without reaching to grasp what i see.