Yet Not Consumed

But give me the frost of your name 
in my mouth, give me 
spiny fruits and scaly husks— 
give me breath 

to say aloud to the breathless clouds 
your name, to say 
I am, let me need 
to say it and still need you 
to give me need, to make me 
into what is needed, what you need, 

no more than that I am, no more 
than the stray winds on my neck, the salt 
of your palm on my tongue, no more 

than need, a neck that will bend 
lower to what I am so 
give me creeping, give me clouds that hang 
low and sweep the blue of the sky 
to its edges, let me taste the edges, the bread-colored clouds, 
here I am, give me 

thumb and fingers, give me only 
what I need, a turn here 
to turn what I am 
into I am, what your name writ in clouds 
writ on me