strawberry window  

voice all thumb print 
on the open window:
outside someone is singing
& their voice comes in smooth
like a hard caramel.
sweet saliva dew. i want
to crawl into that mouth
& feel each note hum through me.
i'll be her handful of harpsichord.
i'll be her plastic kuzoo.
this winter's gone strawberry 
with bouts of mud.
i reach my arm out, hoping
to clutch a fragment 
of that ribbon-ing melody
but instead catch 
a blue robin's egg
as it drops from a bare tree.
cold planet pluto, a melting
piece of hail with a glass bird
inside. the trees, 
like adam & eve, realize 
on this strange
night that they aren't wearing
any leaves. they reach for 
shirt. i give them away
each one button at a time,
one for you
one for you
& this is not enough
so the one takes 
my floral print button-up shirt
& the other takes me teal pants,
draping the garment over a branch.
they weep, knowing that they're
still so naked. they don't
pay attention like i do
as i hear the singing
getting farther away.
what song is that?
i ask again & again
but there's only me 
& the sobbing oaks &
the melting egg still dripping
in my palm. i could follow
the voice, i know,
but that would ruin 
the mystery of it. i crawl back
in through the open window
& lay on my own voice,
the floor of my office
where the egg turns 
completely into liquid
& the glass bird is too 
small to speak. i let 
the singing fade out into
another laugh of wind. 
what song was that?
what song?
& how would it feel 
inside that mouth, under
a warm wet tongue
as the tune trickled 
& clothed me.