To Body What's Around Me

--Jay Deshpande

Stomach feels cloyed and trembling, often the day

is trembling, often I am small step on a branch pressing up,

then giving up, and still with walking on. These are the days

in which you come to me, not to say exquisite but no less

a vessel for it: you here, with amazingly attached arms. I am never

interior but a shaken thing. I remember

the field on top of the hill that approached a line, wooden

how it was not approached, and this light damage of childhood

is somehow meaning now. I know the grasses

I wouldn't walk on, and the more real ferns. Meaning now.

When partial I am somehow looking most directly at you,

and this happens to be frequent, and you'll never understand.

But you see a perhaps, and I, I hold you for it.

Still the hill's inside, with its one sun going down.

Stillside the hill, and the touching never stops.