If I begin with a track and a score
gourds and wax and an empty clothesline
drifting. Hover over the glass in the fall
Oh my mental season. Whose hand in the now not
rising not warming body of the mother of
us is pressing? Whose heel
pressing? If I begin with a track and a score
like a kid with a bow or a blade
might I find fields gnats ticks some extant subclass
in the grammar or gamma rays at sunrise?
