A week ago, I made a list of things I want to change. This morning, I assess progress.
An old game, // asking what you would do with an extra hour / if you had one.
When I open the door in the summer / three sparrows, picking crumbs off the threshold, / always scatter in an instant: small, brown, / so quick they are like excited heartbeats.
Even though my neighbor's car was stolen, and she has cancer or has had cancer, and now the street has an absence in it, like a missing tooth.
You blink back so many red veils // so often they stop being blood. The fur / of your parka becomes indistinguishable / from your own hair.
I am flexible and flickable, buoyant, / pulpable. These are my only truths. / And the golden rail down my back // like a wick of fire.
Gossamer horizon. The trees are less dense with their colors / than last year. Still, what might be called splendor. // Or slippage. Through slight gaps in our fingers, we watch / a gathering sky...
The children have no idea where the passages / lead, whether other routes to the surface exist, / and which branches might contain breathable / air.