We’re not strangers here —
forget-me-nots raise blue heads
all along the path.

Two manikin hands
in the studio window
gesture disbelief.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like stars, suns with rays, eyes —
centuried birthmarks.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like suns with rays, stars, eyes —
centuried birthmarks.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like eyes, stars, suns with rays —
centuried birthmarks.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like eyes, suns with rays, stars —
centuried birthmarks.

I swallow sunshine
until my head shatters like
sunlight confetti.

The light on Sunday,
daisies and spent hydrangeas
in the empty church.

Geese in the blue bay,
parents and babies like boats,
unmoored, unharbored.

The gentlest flowers,
not separate from the air —
but made out of air.

I thought this was home,
the morning light in my arms,
I wake and it’s gone.

Indigo night sky,
we walk the steep hill under
spring constellations.

Like charcoal smudges,
perfectly drawn, sharp, black, gray,
birds rest by the sea.

In my dream there was
a bellpull that rang the sun —
days like petals, pealed.

You’re like a stone door,
sealed at the bottom and sides —
even sky shut out.

Blue wings like blue glass,
the bird above the building —
blue glass like blue sky.

Stories come undone —
unwinding in rolling domes,
prayers shook loose, lost.

Echoes of archways,
doorways and long shadows cast —
transoms overhead.

Roses face upwards —
with the hot, faraway sun,
an understanding.

My imperfect life,
having climbed out from under —
for what’s beautiful.