#k iver

“Because You Can’t” by K. Iver

I stand in front of paintings a long time and think about the bones once belonging to you and how Egon Schiele could line a body into movement. Because you no longer have a shape, I’ve made a practice of nearness. A hawk lets me stroke her mid-flight, I let comets land in my mouth, when they’re small enough. My lover pushes all their weight on me because I asked. They flatten me into astonishment. Because nothing can astonish you, I tempt what’s alive by doubting I could love it more. It’s a neat trick. When I use it, raccoons visit often, their fingers closed around mud older than me. Missy, this is me moving on. There’s a noon rain to get caught in and many clavicles to behold. I wish you could see this one, tilting across a century.