If I knew you I'd call you bold.
Your signature would be an elegant scrawl,
and we'd compare birthdays by candlelight,
melt wax on our fingers
and drink appleshine in October.
I'd be wishing for things I could not have.

If I knew your true name
(it would sound like desert or crimson or pheasant) I'd know every secret
thing you hide. I'd bind you in a circle,
keep you in my living room in place of the television.
I'd make you guess my name and we'd tell each other about climbing oak
trees in winter when
the branches are barren and you can see through them
the way I want to see through you.
I'd turn you to glass and scratch you a bit,
break off strands of hair and keep them
locked in my father's desk.
And I'd tell you
the story of how he disappeared
when I was dosed on morphine in a hospital bed,
my left lung collapsed, and
me wishing I had someone to talk to as I
watched a movie with my eyes closed.