Swatch
a margin
we see ourselves leaving in fragments
— marker here and there —
some measure of loss trailing like seaweed
the way Hamlet saw his ghost,
a white cloth with freshly embroidered tiny red stitches smearing like liquid
no ladder here,
warp, woof,
striation, to cross over
this filament, suspended,
the only dock
* * * * *
Mozart’s Colander
We shadow what we can’t have.
Marks on terrain in an oval mound.
Parched, we linger
though our hearts race on.
Not the haze of loss
when light dims today,
only rotation,
a different stance towards the sun.
* * * * *
tree
short river
wood grain in the shape of a human,
arms lifted skyward
a key to something grand,
we hope
butterflies at home in their particular bush
my robes are decrepit, shabby
poor without a glint,
& yet sun is a meditation clock
here, in the face of shade