She’s the windowpane greasy bloom of dust on the glass stunned bird in the dirt splayed in the space between this world (clocks and
Undressing night sky— chamomile petals orbit the mud hut Your metal womb All our hopes, enough sausage—to go with the moon
The storm had stopped. I lay beside my father in Mississippi. I counted one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi. That river’s mighty currents pulled you under. Quicksand also