“the form of her body by which she anticipates her power in a dream is light in a tree.” -Mei Mei Bursenbrugge
a pencil scratch. tired, hidden eyes.
freshly burned fields reflect the might
of gold and dust cranes its neck
to locate the sun.
her bronze arms fix
against the prairie roses.
their least altered petals
let slip, reveal
the sky’s intention:
the gold that fell on her frame.
a grave hit the ground running
colored light reflect
upon brick painted walls.
sun from a broken window
found one face in a crowd;
this book of pictures.
her hours pass slowly
over east west and water.
silence of a glass ceiling.
dirt under her fingernails.
icicles skate backwards into autumnal bliss
before falling.
