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.