fumble

fumble

maybe is maybe but maybe

it’s the snow I need

to scoop out and cup

in my bare palm to keep me

from drifting out

as though this great freeze

of a blond sometimes white

sometimes green field

were (at the bottom

of the hill still yet to climb)

a wave wall I’ve dipped my blouse open

to, and the only foam to loose itself

to my left breast hung low over

the gunwale is a frayed camisole

a bubble of winded water gone

to ice lucky to lodge in the pocket

of this bank untucked like a loose

shirttail whose tips a night ago

were loose as that bubble

free as that and as random

the naked linen the dangling

from two strings button

whose two free eyes free of thread

free of cloth said nothing blessed

nothing their mouth of awe

couldn’t say having

to slide into the only

hole they’re told

only to be denied

the slide

one thumb  at a time