Transference

I live in the crease
of a withered leaf,
Dry, insensate.
Easy to crush.
Easy to burn.

I breathe
in the glow
of an anthurium,
Luminous
in noon light.

I thrill to the touch
of a twice-born sun.
Its shallow whispers
tracing sleepy patterns
of pleasure
on my pastiche skin.

I swell
with the silence
of cold sandstone,
Spilling the shadows
of a thousand footfalls.
Waiting to be freed.
Or ever heard.

I burn
in the pale tallow
of a cheap lamp,
Uneasy, unwilling,
Unruly.