Pulling

I'm not sad.
I am spreading a tree and its contents
over my cold legs, trunk, and face
looking for where the holes are.
I am a set of Christmas lights;
I am a loop.
A three turn into a backwards plateau
of expansive canyon at night
permits me to be the way I am:
comfort, pity, need of color, design, motive, and body
language
sold the voice box and its contents
in exchange for a heap or a tree
a natural representation of my work and my
ways of stepping out
the deciding of small steps
like placing a hand in my heart
sighing and saying how much better
looking in water makes living inside of it.