|
Shards of a room
moving the ocean in her throat--
The day is yellow. It is
always yellow. She nods
as if learning it.
I said a lemon-shaped light and
you hit me--
it was like you hit me.
A lemon-shaped light.
•
What you hold
you hold in your hand:
Bone china, thick braided
roots of the house plant, fingers
uncontrolled because unknown.
His hand is a shove.
You hear
her running up the stairs,
bits of ice
on the river. They
collide with distance.
The future is firm in this.
|
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts