Windmills in West Texas twice, once going (the headstone not in place
yet, still a plastic marker), once coming back. In every house
she'd lived, she'd hung crystals in the kitchen window. We took
yours down. The first irises opened just hours later, in the dark
of the side yard.
When the news about your mother came
I thought I wouldn't know what to tell you about grieving,
though when I lie flat on a wood floor I remember how I did it.
My cotton blanket looks like your cotton blanket except yours is electric.
Chicken-Sitting
We didn't even hear the dogs: everything is a big deal to chickens.
The desire to bind
the other to oneself, the urge to abandon the other in the thin trees of the park
and drive alone, safely, to a sunny spot in the grass of one's own yard.
I like your problems. I like that you wear pink.
Little chinese fans of clouds, and then vertebrae.
I liked being up at that hour but I didn't like why.
