Cords of wood, lines of concrete, aluminum

slats covering new houses. Mortar

crossing pavement and cobblestone, endless

bricks raising, connections of lawn and mansion.

Her face

was a new skyscraper; Chicago

at night. Sunglasses on the dancefloor.

Now she throws food on the ground for a cat.

The cat finds a dog and gums his tail.

She opens

doors all over the house,

opens windows and the house breathes

like the soil connected to the crop.

She says, let the dust dance

in the shotgun

beams. Her chair, her needle, wool,

she says, are only objects now. Her garden

inhales damp air at night, exhales

the day. Watch the shore, she says,

the ocean

is a lung. Watch the garden

from the atmosphere of the roof. She used

to sit in the club wearing sunglasses, watching

the cats connect with dogs. She used to rock

on her chair connecting wool to wool.

But then

she had to open her house,

connect it to the dry air, the soil.

Had to bury her dog to help flowers grow.


she watches his crucifix and tries

to see God where wood connects to wood.


First published in The Golden Hour Book Vol. II (2009) and collected in Tomorrow, We Will Live Here, 2010.