Can we give up our eyes and ears,
mouth, nose, and skin,
and find new ones, never worn;
then lie in the woods
for one day?
To see the color of the leaves
is not to know them.
I touch, smell, and taste their veins; still,
they are like foreign prisoners
and I the dictator who detains them.
To feel the warmth of the sun means nothing.
I swallow comets, but no I have not
seen Einstein’s atoms.
To drink a skeletoned limb,
oaks of Muir Street, is no feat of mine.
I pull my collar to the horizon
and break my nose on a twig.
Back in the lightning wind moves as a glorified wave,
while I hold the pumice of a composite volcano yet
cannot release ash to wind. Though it sleeps
in my hands, hands that crush leaves.
Jeremy Ford’s work has appeared in the Duck Lake Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Cosumnes River Journal, and River River Journal, among other places. He lives in New Orleans.