In the river, the body remembers where it became itself.
It’s okay to feel anesthetized sometimes.
The yellow finch bears witness, making you real.
It’s time to release the hurt sparrow in your pocket.
Someone will notice eventually if you don’t emerge.
The music goes on and on.
I brought you your favorite things but couldn’t find you.
I climbed a ladder to return the blue eggs to the whirlpool-twig nest.
Pages in the new book might exonerate, but they defer.
Some celebrate not being alone so much.
Every day there is birthday cake for someone.
To talk of transformation was somewhat tacky, but someone had to do it.
The trick to see through the old man’s stoicism with your own poker face.
You, without edges, hoarding wind for July.
The map in your brain can snowflake.
A vial of motivation can temper small deaths.
Excited children stomp through thunderstorms.
We could be sculptures swimming in moonlight.
We could divorce daylight and live with the owl at the wood’s west perimeter.
Shed our criticisms, afraid of what to become without margins.
Wing-flight pulling trees down into fragments.
The rain has been kind to the emerald world.
There were still bills on the kitchen table and unopened mail.
There are no more refills for the medication that was to fix you.
A body with vertigo can fail to trampoline back.
Military planes shake the house and one’s convictions.
Negotiations somehow always cause fatalities.
This perpetual now, a type of time travel, but the old woman is gone.
If I throw away more days, I’ll move backwards.
I gave the sun away and traded the sycamores for a string of Saturdays.
The moon, a white host, climbs up the teal peacock-feather sky.
We were strangers at the sleepy border.
Our passports expired.
We were driving the opposite way from home.
Some of this was strange.