dull patter, a cruxbacklight, raisin-likebuds on a bloomingtree, its fruits alreadycoming into their own,rosemary peakingfrom its spentstalks like sweet dew,paint off of the porch,slats coming loose, afew I picked likesticks in the yard tostow away, in thegarage, the mandoor ajar, everymorning I openand view animpossible vistathe space betweenlike toe gaps, armspans, the pulsea chatter ofshapes…