drifting morning:
a name quakes
in a heron shape:
your smile
admits a yawn hole,
unrecorded:
boats, choked
with lake scrapes,
where the town runs
to flowers: they bloom
in your birthday: astounding
the cold-
blooded paddock-
stones, her warmth
a pollen, strewn
at the bedside
edge: corded
with the colder
edge of loss, paused
in the mirrored, cut-
glass sobriety
of finding
your head-, your hand-
still hung
there, a yawning
loop among
inscription chains:
where trees flood
red, and a stop-
sign shatters
every membrane
separating sight
from sun, a mute
sky's cherry
clarities: cloud-
flecked across
the blood-streamed iris
upended: among
such collections
of edges: observation
rinds, birdlike
dissipations holding: how
to say: this song
is sung: to say
no street-string
remains unplucked:
