If what we had grew stronger, if words
did not forget the shells that shook
them loose, if last night’s rain did not fall
in a soft staccato on the ground— If,
despite the clamor of figures on the street,
we could stay tethered to this space—
But the light is always changing,
and the edges of the porch blur and color
with fine snow. In her own footsteps,
the feral cat walks toward the garden,
tracking moments that preceded it.
See the clear imprint housed
in each old crater, see how water
changes to other forms of water.
Ferrous water washed away by salt,
leaving blue silhouettes of stalks and algae,
heart-shaped leaves; unfinished shapes,
bodies pressed close on the muslin sheet.