To the north, an outlook tower with a bruised gong
above the cypress line. Bald shear of stone, openings
in the base of hills where survivors could have burrowed.
On clear days you can see the coast, green-again chain
of mountains where roads once snaked, continuous
relay like your best intentions. Often it is absurd
to recall how much we worried about imperfections. Now
it is exquisite to be able to remember even the smallest
kinds of texture: slubbed crinkle of a dress, specific
weight of a spoon; pooled honey in a wooden floorboard,
splinter breaking through skin’s calloused barrier.