I want to talk about the distance
between a finger and its ring,
the pulse in our throats, a river
rushing over its banks.
I want to talk about the grain
of a picture, the texture of its light,
the light a diver sees in twenty feet
of clear water, the light that fills a room
where a woman has just given birth to twins.
I want to stop talking and slip
into the cold clothes of the river, or walk
the rim of a cliff during an eclipse.
I want to scrape the paint off the gate,
down to bare wood, and rub until it shines.