You ask me to come
You summon me here
You tell me to wait
You tell me to care.
But I am the youth
Don’t ask me to stay
No substance to tie down
No mass to be pegged.
Instead watch me dance
Bliss in the greeting
Swept off your feet
For only the evening.
For it is the nature
That sways like I do
To call me cold
To not know me at all.
My body is not this vinyl tattoo to which the masses are accustomed.
My body is a story book, a picture book, a cook book–the very genealogy they discuss in quiet recesses.
They ask me for answers, sometimes, when they decide to notice what they notice
And to this I stand still amused at the plasticity
For they do not like what I reply. Answers which cannot be skimmed
Simplified, compounded, bulleted, presented in lecture halls, displayed in glass casings.
My answers have too many commas for comfort, you see, too much time to breathe
Has never been so good for the soul, I hear.
A presence to which the lillies
can tithe the precious purity of their souls.
I am as present as the heart beat which thumps which thuds–
ever thumps–through your beating soul, never posing too many thoughts,
Until at the change of a reflection the beat
Yea though I am but the valley carved between the grandeur at which you gawk
A presence preordained by the primitive mind
I am not the
That you imagine me to be.
You do not notice what you notice, afterall
For you see only my presence
How irregular I
Get to be.