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