tumult in the way severed branches press against glass. the scratch greets your body, as it jolts and wanes in dreams. we hover in a kitchen, banishing the cracks in linoleum to the corners that escape light. we pour black coffee down our throats. you read Wilde as I read C. D. Wright. I see you press pages in your palms, fusing paper into clay, into mud and rock. they grow as statues. thousands of words now stones. effigies of God and darkness. we start to plant them. two under the fruitless rose bush. three across the hall from the shut guest room. we decide to split one for breakfast. eat each half as if it were toast. the remaining statues grew lonely. leaking condensation even in the sun. envious and alone. so we fed half to the lake. grappled them into a net and cast them, watched them drown and bubble. left the rest for wind. some stacked as cards in the backyard. others lined up in a row where leaves always vanish. we watched as they dissolved. chunks of stone, pellets of paper. a canyon of clouds formed. the wind consumed the debris as it wept.
originally published by New Note Poetry 2021
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