Goats scrabble for veined footholds, their faces
small horned triangles tufted and milk-thin.

From the cliff edge, on a day so hot, the coast looks
silvered as a tray on which white foam ripples in.

In the cool depths of the herbalist’s kitchen,
rows of oily vials: green forms undulating within.

What tonics for the spirit just coming back on bird-
wing, what poultices to lay on fevered skin?

A gourd tenses as it fills and empties, fills.
I think of you, climbing toward that loosening—

The world is hard and blue and full
of rocks before the milk comes in.


In response to Via Negativa: Burglary.

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