the paneled room, the one with windows.
Who was with me?
I sought to scare it, ghoulish thing, out of hiding.
I turned up a list of things forgotten.
Clear silent, intact, existing, perfect six-sided blossoms.
Spun glass inhabiting vacuums.
Webs impossible to walk without disturbing.
A texture of flesh and sweaters.
Yesterday's equal to ten years ago,
equally a twisting tube,
an echo - else more perfect than before.
Chiding, 'Hush up! Shut up!'
Her wig, her head wound.
Dawn birds starting the day, only time to manifest.
Or prove something, tireless,
again and again.
The inheritances are all wound tightly, unspooled for me
unclaimed, perfectly rendered, without dust.
France crow's call, early morn.
India crow call,
New England crow call.
Was the ground frozen?
An all-red autumn, horses stand, in clouds of their own breath.
