The one woven into the brass tapestry but also
the one having to fly heavy
with rain to a real nest where weak neck babies
cry from a sideways wallet. Flashlight, I believe
when you shine through that the veins of our house
fill with maples. I believe that the walk over
is cool and creamy. That we’re a family
peaceably going about dinner. For myself, I drink just half a beer.
I don’t need the other half. I hold fast to the plant floor.
Fascia bull-rushing toward midtown, to pin-hole feeling.
Close to a marathon of me ray-thin,
inconsolable. Crescent yard built to
a ray of skippered light.
fleet upon the stems of my memory.