Out in the field, / wheat, and in the wheat, weevils.
Every tongue leaf stomped / by child’s cleats.
The last snow / retreats into the earth to wait us out, or does it?
we’re ghosts / reminiscing about facial expressions
like wary caterpillars, / through the Good Thing Gallery
as driftwood –here was the heart, naked
A presence at a border draws / the arm of the light
scarlet or not, shelter or none, / centriole and silk filament,
This is the underlife, / the Lethe running straight through every choice.
With her polished face flashing in the fire / and shadows crawling through the cobwebs of fog,