You seed yourself like grasses in a field but also between the ochre stones of an ancient street. You bring on darkness and sunrise.
I kept telling my teacher that I don’t know this minuet. Only my hands know it, only my fingers and how they stretch the
Funneling to a point like the mold of an upside down birthday hat: Armadillos, my neighbor said, scratching a waxy ear. Little armored ones,
Walking through the green dunes on our way to Abbott’s Lagoon, I ask if she remembers the weasel we saw years ago here, running