As I fence out the dark clouds of cobwebs
my hands cannot spoon up this spiral staircase
as I brush them away with eyes that are slit half-closed
creaking down on landings whose floorboards squeak
when shes not here...shes still here...(premature requiem 2)
she speaks
of the spaces between birds
calls to a fish
sleeps in grass
she opens closes a door
returns
ties her hair
slides metal beneath silk
wears blue sometimes
buys cantaloupes in season
she rolls a yellow blind
leans on a sill
legs crossed at the ankle
holds peeling bark in a painted hand
one time
she picked violets in a wood
put the violets in a vase
the vase on a fallen stone in a different wood
she touches her skin
one time i watched her dance with an architect
when shes in a different town
i heat coffee
read a part of a book
if im not sleeping
