confession to to William Kentridge and Audre Lorde

those branches that first enchanted me to you- I do not say-
there they are- I do not point-

but here, instead, chirp small confessions to my chosen enormities

-hovering over your unmade bed,
I'm pretending to not be remembering
and settle on the floor.

Sometimes, William, time actually does yield
watching its ark land here, tentatively,
is some small grace
of what might happen,
if we continue to survive.