“Up!” she signals, syllabic cup meaning wherever I am now—upor down—floor, high chair—change direction!—
It follows you everywhere,I think, even this hillsideof mint and yellow gorseon the far side of the sea,
the lake becomes a ghost. i decide to lie down in its place. for comfort, i polish its bed smooth, quilt a pallet
Even here. Even now the heavy industryof the everyday, making to be unmade,where a word is the world between us.
The white slap of the moon after hail gone throughivy to silver April’s first green blades: There I listened
Cézanne doesn’t paint what he sees.His apples are orange.
I am more than the world you asked me to be—
Bow to the peaches heavy and timeless, wrapped in sheets of cool.
I feel compelled to give you an ending, a promise of hope