Summers ago we skirted the low roads in West Virginia where the wear of tires became a human scream as a train whistle caught
The jar still stands, now by an anthill where tri-part bodies labor, the way busy people pass the faces of skyscrapers, so it towers,
When the light broke
upon your crown of crow’s feathers,
you didn’t believe in silence or sound. Your dime-round-eyes
widened with your chest,
the way
The sound of them woke me in the morning, feet kicking up careful spirals of leaves and lean, low voices under my window. All