the tiniest blooms—
microscopic—must open
inside us
the tiniest blooms—
microscopic—must open
inside us
having no woodpile
you gather lines, having no sun
you gather sighs
any order
of words will do today,
any
a plastic figure
planted to his neck, spying
on us all
when one bird
flies near, the others
fly away
look at people
walking—you see some carry
weightier longing
a keel aground,
the boat tipped away, no sea
beneath us