that one walks around, and the changes
of its contour as one moves
his position only emphasize and revivify
its majesty.
N. C. Wyeth
Through one muntin and one alone the grass (because
of the glass
I suppose) is a windier
green, I mean see all the way
how through can't you pretend to
ease your skin and bones into
the air free of
the barrier
while you're standing or
sitting or licking your lips
and the almost healed split
lets itself go again against the knowing
point of your stiffened tongue just keep
going
with the sod coming soft on us
true as the wintered cemetery
stones over and down below this
window and what's left
of the blue or what's been
worn through: water
slop
aged
pink
rag
wring and wrung and all undone of her
buttons - if you draw back to that
arm coming in you might
if you're in the right frame
feel the weft and shag
of sand that were made to make you able
to see such grit insisting
in the splinter you'd felt stuck in a week ago and just left off the skin growing
over the hole
or blood coming on slow like a child lowering
her chin to her throat when she knows
what she knows though she won't....and those
old buttons become a rosary sewing alone to disclose
what exactly? maybe covering up
the one eye like she's told to go out alone
to her bed in the dark when going
beneath such dark of a thing makes
beads come on her lip
and when afraid she licks them from
the tip of her finger she rubs them rubs the grit a little
pock on the interior like spots inside
the old glass you look through
that one pane see
trapped with (whose?
whose?)
old air?
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