While It Happens

Don’t think about it while it happens,
that slippery moment
buckthorn dreams your spines and deep berry eyes
while a neighbor dog barks from your chest.

Notice, don’t think, the ever twirl.

Thyme breathes your nose,
your eight palms: cupped basil leaves
out reaching each other for sun.
Comfrey knits the bells of your tongue
to sweet kneed bees.

Church bells ring your eager skin a church,
calling all in. Heavy, your peony head arches
to earth, petals wilt on your flagstone feet,
your thin neck clutches a fist of fat leftover seeds

Don’t think metaphor, personification or make believe.

Don’t think.
This isn’t the work of similes
or even cosmic permeability.
Rest. Stop swinging
the lamps of your body.

2011