On the threshold, a vertebra.
Is there only inside and
outside of a house, either carpet
of grass or wool? I imagine
a whitetail's breath, fog against winter
and the finality of vultures.
Soaring shadows on the expanse
of a clearing. A black feather
in the dooryard, a yearling's antler
dusty in a bin at Angel's Antiques.
Soon bone and keratin undo
their dresses, relinquish
a bodice of proteins to soil.
Here my tomatoes yellow
in the shade and we too are gone soon.
I have never been more
earth than earth. Your foot
already planted outside.
