Ruts in the map are places
I�ve been static under
dribbling skies, wondering

where to go. Your eyes
linger on me, again- as
if I were a primary color

only you perceive. I could
blame restlessness on myself.
I dig to lay bare in bony

fulfillment, later to hide
Earth beneath French-tip
nails. But your gaze is still

nearly green, like Augustine
blades when February melts
under a new March. Until

greed snaps the wishbone,
I will slip out of weeping
shoes, barefoot it on your

welcome mat -kiss you
as winter wools burn
in the woods out back.



�2007 by Yolanda Calderon-Horn