The season of stitches, of grass in my tea.
The week of Persian cucumbers.
The month of egg shells, of cardboard drums and fists.
The second of poison. Of prosecco and finger prints.
The moment of black knobby trees. The minute of the tongue,
Of citrus rind on glass, chia seed, half-persimmon —
This is not me. The see-through house, the rooms of drift.
The ancient yellow yolks, tschotkes and charms.
The paper mache, the twine, the everything-for-sale, or sold.
The broken hall, the lacerated light.
Of footnotes, of waltzes, of pardons, of pleas,
Of peace in your soul.
The evening of ankles. The hour of chatter, of stockings. Of snags
And silhouette.
The year of the baby’s breath, of creases, soft and sweet.
The day of the boiling pot. The whistle of witnesses. The bone dropped.
This is not me, the days of dog-eared pages,
The winter of almond, of lavender, of island pine and ocean stone.

The season of the forgotten face,

Of jade, of pearl.

The season of the shell, the stripping

Of summer skin.