it will be so, that I am always starting over

patterns in the dish of my eye


a fishtail, houndstooth, each addition

holding space for the invisible next


with years I have picked up scattered feathers

grey and unmellowed


one fist at a time, pressured into a glass jar

I seal it with a baubled lid


in my dream the calendar reminds me of the full moon

the jar belongs on the stony ledge where she waits for me


the enormous shadow,

the things I have collected—condensed