The line goes taut.
Face turns from surprise
to exhilaration.
Five years of fishing
has honed the skills,
the give and take,
the shift of weight,
the steady, concentrated,
winding of the reel.
In all that time,
the fish has learned nothing.

Alarm bell resounds –
a deep light enters here,
puts honey in my cheeks –
window garden
shirrs a wedge of sun –
a dream falls over the edge,
lands noiselessly
amid my coming thoughts –
scattered traffic fills
pockets of silence –
it is seven a.m.

One solitary whistle,
in the distance,
late at night,
is enough to
take you places.

who, but I, thinks
of the shattered eardrums of pigeons

exhaustion throttling down to plum blossoms

there’s a worldwide allegory of the cell, 
and Play-Doh turns to stone overnight

the wind is showing the work
in the margins of her long division

everyone’s in handcuffs on the front lawn
and I’m panicked about pesticides on clover

how many cats is enough cats

a pretext and just being

pack me in with oranges 

stepping off the word
to come into,

running across. Winter. not toward. Spring

trying out imaginary cellophane goggles