Compass
We left an empty house, if it can ever be so. Rock and sand and a lot of wind and water between. Seduced read ahead. More jagged peaks than trees.
Compass
Blue, spring blue, beginning to build up its color. Love this time of year, buds far outnumbering branches. It’s about digging, digging it, digging out, even if winter was dry. Enough wind to move the windchimes without sounding them.
Compass
Blue wall, blue state, forward and backward. Sound without the plane. Why do batchelor buttons look like garter belts? Sun in diamonds.
Compass
Daisies, drooping. It’s at my back, on my back, over my head. As soon as the beans sprout, turning up their first leaves to sun, slugs, that very night, nibble them down to stem. That’s one thing we’re sure of, for now, day ends straight ahead.
Compass
Bee nudges open lupine blossom, plunges in. No beans this year to climb up poles, skies. Tangle of rose buds smothered, it seems, by aphids. A back door, a crow, a future, an end.
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