I could live again.
I could say:
This body has hung
against the tree
long enough.
No longer
will I let the sun
leather my flesh
until it crackles like
poorly cured leather.
I could live again.
I could be the seedling,
uncoated, cracked open
and no longer closed in
on itself. I could be
the seedling spilling
like wine poured out
from the leather flask,
like anthers
stirring the blossom.