Texture of an imitation of an imitation of her hairstyle. Here
the heart agrees
with my patter.
The mud the children track through sunroom
than memory. If composing poems are a kind
of translation. If editing is a kind
of translation. If hiring some kid
to cut our lawn is a kind
of translation. Everything, perhaps, is translation.
This darkness, mere light. The practice
of ancient, and everyday. Letter carrier tethers, our
boundary of lawn. Twitter ethics: you can never step twice
into that same thread. Topography
of a thousand swoons.
Hardtack, dusk. I drink
like a glass of wine. Because time is a river and the breeze
is a river and the
dandelions are a river. Collect in their small hands, two
modest piles pool
on concrete steps. For now, spring flows
in their direction of laughter,
attention. Bottleneck, stars. Our street today
is toothless, present. An implausible word.
Unfastened, listen. They break for the house.