Liza Flum
Fishhook balanced atop
a wet fingertip
does not pierce, snags
on the first froth of skin.
I think I grow clean.
All my life, I wanted to be
a hinged mechanism.
Snake builds skin like a cabin
on the shoreline, studs it
with glass oblongs.
Leaves and leaves the house standing.
Muscles pour as dark water,
the way a wave cleans.