Touch the world in any place
and a pale sand shows through.

A recessed living room,
mallards trampling the lawn.

What new immanence pries at the mind.
Who has the smell of flood on their clothes.

As when robber baron wives
felt at their throats for the cameo,

touch the world now in any place
and a pale sand shows through.

A painting licks a thing to its beginning.
A poem grows outward to all edges like a self.

To come home a guest, face to face—
a propeller surfacing in the pond.