thinking of time
as a settled sea or some
other thing it’s not
thinking of time
as a settled sea or some
other thing it’s not
sandlewood lifted
by a gyre of smoke from a
red enameled bowl
by now I might
paper walls with art
in fading ink
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despite neglect
fingers find the holes,
mouth the tune
at the corner
a child’s voice heard then
seen
some deficits
ought not to count against
a whole
a pooled
necklace hides its absent
link
mountain snow
stepped on—evaporating
in summer air
in the sink, a bowl
tipped—each step spills water
over its edge
amid my pencils,
one more sharpened—shorter
and proud