If I were to tell you all of it, or any,
To go to the window and scratch
its name through the frost;
to write it out in front of you
in the dust
on the table top;
If I were to sit you down, to pull
the paper from your eyes,
to look in and sink sink far enough
and then
to rise;
If I were to tell you all, to bring
its body into the room,
to expose the skin the flesh the bone,
Whatever goes below
the bone;
To put it in your lap, to take your hand
to the edge of touch– still,
You’d stand.
Push me back.
Move,
as if movement
was the answer and
Disbelieving
all of this, even this,
Would say,
“It doesn’t matter.”