Body

Me standing in a demented rain of my own making:

Sometimes the title comes first, sometimes the poem—

It falls where it will and when, words like the beads

On the mala—tick, tick, tich. The pruning that happens

To my dreams. Wait, you say, I thought they were made.

So much for perspective: They work both ways,

Like simultaneous and paradox, I am like Blake

In his garden, listening to the lark, painting his self-portrait.