My hands’ lines have grown undefined: grasses in their wires, fancy
fishing knots, bones of a stray. The hard to handle can be sweet to see?
I whisper the harder notes. The snow was dirty until it fell.
School buses learning their routes, late
August. Tiger lilies animate in a ditch. If you fail as a waiter, the
restaurant may hire you as a singer.
My sister colors the air between birds: the color of flight. This month
she distinguishes between beaks and feathers, not by switching crayons,
but by rubbing hard through the paper to make the beaks opening.
I parked far to walk.
The skin peels back with ripening. Now point
to where exactly in the brain you believe this so-called light begins.
The most again, or once more again, and more than ever. And what now
won’t come to seem like innocence, and extradition. Pleasure educates.
A single strand of onion in the dough gave savor.
Longevity in the violin student’s bow, fixed in its case. She thumbed a string.
Painted the boarded windows white, so snow.
I have been practicing a knot so complex the rope goes completely straight at times.