Her songs assail first light. Fluent, they flourish among the rooftops and chimneys, unsettle early morning sleep. Pausing among night’s tangle of sheets to
Sunlight and tree limbs sway across the back fence, An Indonesian shadow play. The villain is my aloe vera In the large clay pot.
And still surprised by unconscious counting when I swim the backstroke or find I miss him. Numbers as benchmark, as dissolution. One beige-walled
“Even the clocks have run out of time.” —Carolyn Forche, “Letter to a City Under Siege” I want the days to be shaped differently—