Sand fell as I turned
to open my hand west,
notated, as textile
each sequence whole
corner to corner

from this far, more detail
in the swinging arm
leaf stained glass
water free of muscle
moving towards
opening




—



through paned glass from Kansas, light offers the idea, the corners of each square rounded.
Tuna cans are perfect for digging foundation. I chose these coordinates for the sound, tracking
the scaffold of a wave, appearing as open chord or the dark line of land. As we move toward
each hill more appear behind, then dirt spills onto my forearm as the glass tilts. We sleep on the
floor, curved to match the bowl of fruit. I try to watch you walk, as if for the first time, so that I
see the weight shift. Heel, ball, toe. A clicking hip. The window placed so the river meets your
lifted arm. Outside, saxifrage carpet, the stone breaker, a true end of winter. Petals bitter when
eaten alone. I leave them dried, lightly curled, on the kitchen counter.