Barbara Daniels

LIKE A BODY

I am lost trees. Am dirt
on the window.

My hand drifts of its own
accord. Wanders away from me.

I am the clock that fell from the wall.
Tocked. My little hand waving.

Perfume of evergreen. Wafted.
I am a ghost tree. Clipped,

chipped. Put to the ground.
I am the scorpion, feared,

freighted. Touch me. I sting.
In this heat I fall to the grass.

Black. Out. Sweat heroically.
Bird. I am bird. The wind

speaks of wildfire.
Ceiling down. Fever

so high I am losing.
What rocks in the water

there? So like a body? Friends
newly dead rot in the ground.

Furred, frantic, my little
hands paddle the dirt.