In periwinkle potion,

you earthworms, kindle

two watery rocks

in a black thread.

I’m a charred log

of obscure reputation;

it’s not that I’m empty

or especially awful—

I’m just worn out,

I’m not hot anymore.

I sit here. Warm me.

Keep my face from moving

on the cliff of my shoulders,

but let the speech of someone’s singing hands

awake my own hands’ hearing.

For with this periwinkle water

I will find out at last—

did her scarf cut me off cold,

like winter leaving the land?