Here

I could find you in each
snag of the ’verse (recognizing the amber
constellating around your pupil’s void)
but I’d have to look
(tip
toeing
over
strings,
skipping between tripwires)
In this pull distance measures in
lengths of time it takes
to get to me (not
spooling out in searches)
And I don’t give thanks
to careless Clotho or believe
proximity alone (crab claws
scissoring towards a maiden’s skirts)
promises a thing. Instinct urges
avoiding an exegesis
of the lines scrawled across your palm
(cocooned around mine
below my finger’s branches)
but perhaps there is
some Japanese moth (its wings
dipping like calligraphy
against the
arch
of phalaenopsis necks)
that sends a flit of wind
(though it seems
a lion’s roar from most arid depths) to
ruffle the pocket of
space beside
me where you
will be

~ Katherin Fitzpatrick

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