“e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” —Dante Alighieri, 34th Canto, La Divina Commedia A tiny thing, a particle, a protein anointed in oil,
While I was asleep, a flock of geese landed in the tree by the fence, The one with high branches that look down on
Master of the Greek declension, I stand outside the clinic, powerless to parse the fiery, dying maple leaf in spiral dance on sharp October
Perhaps in time, I won’t think about my breasts. Soft robins of flesh once above my waist. Each spring, they would spread flat on