For mind reading

There’s nothing I can
determine from the way
you hold your coffee,
or the slice of yellow
in your iris, so I
hold the bracelet you
bought me,
glass redcurrants skished
in my palm.

The room shifts with every breath,
finger-veined beech leaves dance
outside the window,
lambs cut from felt trip and scramble.

There’s a list inked on the
inside of my wrist,
but I follow the pencil line
of your mouth to where
your shoulders give the sky a chance.