Believe me when I say I want to be water.

I want to be unfurled like the
tattered ends of a porch flag 
of dull hardware store flowers--
the kind that grandmothers forget
to change in November when
you start to feel your own skeleton
like the sinews of the frost-
rigor mortis roots of the grass-- 
I want to be poured into white-walled rooms 
--tag me with a plastic ID bracelet
to be adorned in a NUMBER so that no one
can know my name is WATER-- 
I have only ever washed scraped knees 
and fallen from high places to spread
myself thin again in the carcasses
of hail and rain.
I want to drop myself like
a butterfly whose wings had been
plucked by the slimy lips of a 
bull frog who sang about eating 
birds and tulips.
I wall to fall like petals and and like
knee caps. Drop me like the skeletons 
in November and pulls me loose 
like porch flags. I want to paint
the walls of a white room with my thumb
prints-- all watered down 
like tulip water. 
I want to be cupped in your hands
and dropped into the grass
for a proper burial-- don't worry
about letting me fall too far--
I've already descended the sky.