JULIE FUNDERBURK

Lines

tell me
the smooth box
rendered by the gloved
hands of a mime

tell me
the spinning particles
between your foot and my foot
each propped on the railing
tell me that nervous inch

tell me yellow
that lines up nevertheless
perennials burning
for their lost house

tell me oxygen
from a cooler layer
unsuitable for
the breath you must take
to tell me

I’ve scripted
your intimate talk in my head
speak it back

tell me
white butcher paper
the tongue wrapped
separate from the heart