you touch 
                        me

expecting
the ease
with which beetroot
gives in
to the knife

            and my feet

            at once            crave the cold
                                    of deep water

                                      to drape
             within the sleep
                                                     of an eye
                                      unaware
              of its own end

                                       and descend
                                                ever deeper
            beneath that stained glass window
            black

because maybe drowning
too is flight
to

            the angel
                            (tarred and feathered)
            refusing
                         to surrender
                         onto a life of flesh.

(and
if even the vegetables bleed
when you peel them,
what is left?)

and what am I?

but a goodbye

                          left     unsaid.

                          (a whalefall
                           abloom
                           with the tendrils            
                           of fleeting dreams)

(you touch 
                        me

expecting
the ease
with which a beetroot seed
gives in
to life

and I…

I am gladly helpless against it.)