The room where I’m
kept is all glass.
The map I inhabit
thin my walls I
coat in dust from
shells that I’ve razed
myself. The nacre wearies
me. I lack attention
too often turn to
the river below. I
hope it will light
blue and shine brazen
brash attention seeking send
message scrawling. For this
I clear a wall.
I keep a math.
Something inside this house
won’t hum. The sound
of waves is gone
the weight of them
thrown down dragged back
still some rasping sound
slips a gathering in
thin groves of bare
trees holding the heavy
hurl of wind from
my house thin walls.
I wonder what will
break me? Why won’t
it come in this
wind so invisible still
lingering still lulling me
But light is not
wind. I sent it.
And the sky went
gray lost texture. I
tried to still it.
Then smoke. Then cars.
Then diagonally. A gull
cutting across and screaming
Let me live—
where cove ice is
coming fast where gulls
cinch invisible lines rise
on updrafts. What grace
is that? To drop
shelled sustenance lower to
feast? My dream was
me a boat again
a middle and—
all night the ice
got thick surrounding me
I stayed. Wind harried
me hard shaking I
was into and against
the shape of myself.