How a frosted glass repeats
the shadow of itself on the desk:
a broken circumnavigation.
How the the tree cut down
in the back lot leaves a table
smoothed by five days’ rain—
Ask about the green-shrouded
spirits who walked past my sleeping
form to convene in the attic—
How the peonies bent
their heads from the deepest
rose they could bear—
How I knew the smallest buds
would give their hearts
like that, too.