Magnolia’s bud still sewn up, I got out of the house, though it was warm and insistent (the objects do miss us when neglected). Flying snow hauls its wish to a grave on the grass, from one to accumulation.
Destinations heap like Saturdays. Rotterdam whitens my eyes in panels. Cloud-bright skyscrapers, a seagull’s rowdy arc.
So thorough—plate of green water, taupe land—this braided-in burn to carry another’s body in mine and hear the fit of their thought hit my flesh.
It’s not clear how we walk: what into, what from. You, stranded from a mother, mothering. Light bobbing in the river and mossy docks welcome ancestors. Sleep so peopled, we hang from it.
Earlier, roar of memory hurt like Lucy: little girl in cherry tights abandoned to her wordless abandon. Maybe deserted.
The complex container of a gnat reduced to a streak on my page.
Not alone in this, I call to you like an eye answers morning.
Not stakes but stalks, I pass through earth, swimming.