The line of trees, so of orchard
that the stones encircle my pain &
pin sheets of rubber to the dawn. Small
            patterns fill the stone
            circle—dark
            rubble lurks
            under the bay.
            Even
plants can plunder its secret tripwires. Must
they, pour their velvet
labour through the laggy
contours, beside a stone circle; I know
            this in my quiet
            solemn
            shame as I
            flounce from
stone to stone, count the swarming
lilac-dark. Trust me then, &
women can haul off the endless
            gravel their
            flights come
            up, & the blossoms
            moult from the
            empty sky. Blots
the brightening day with ink. Snowy
clay adds spring’s interdiction. Every-
where the language flutters, my
parents’ dark                decisions: