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Back of the war
streaked with embraces
weaving in out of bomb-time,
on a sidewalk busy with
those preparing to be still

I remember the porch chipped red
in younger morning light
past aunt's unicorns and prism cones
and chimes
every front yard tree
a vine on the watching world's face
though they passed indifferent

Fences and soda cans
salt on an iceberg
mother's soup grows wok size on the stove
the cats are dissatisfied with the garden
fresh from turning
until a mole's head at the fringe of the compost
snaps them away
twine and stakes trembling
around the pod plants
sunflower's leaves when seeds are ripe
the sound of something that loves
near stillness,

I fell into a textbook submarine
but the weather was my mother
I melted in snowcraft
grew hot to the core
trying to freeze the volk out
there are things in the ocean that can't sing
and live blind to their brightest grandeur.