Number 165: what joy is like

at first a slow and creeping thing
oozing up between the brittle cracks
like sap along the bark of an elderly tree.
Oozing, yes, like sap, but also like blood.
You wonder if it could be a wound
something to be bound
up and put a stop to
hide how it runs down the front of you,
rivulets now, unabashed and pooling
in the fresh-cut grass by your feet
anointing your feet like tears,
like sweet perfume
and the grass like the hair of a woman
and the wind like her lips
bending down to kiss
your feet
and also like her hands
reaching up to touch
the green place in your side
which flows
with something you can’t quite name
something like — oh maybe, dare you? —
joy