That dusk in the pantry corner
where the dull bag of bulgur lies.
The whiskey line where sky meets land.
The nickel cloud bearing storm.
On a forested mountain, the spur around boulder
and falling. The whump of the fall itself.
Frozen shoulder. Arthritic knuckle.
The cross of arms in anger.
The damp of the hole I dug as a child
on my sure way to China.
A pine marten in a thicket baring its teeth. The squirm
of a frog in an egret’s beak.
A dust slut under the bed where we just made love.
The sneeze. The one departing
watched through the slats of a blind.
A stubbed toe. A single sock left behind.