Inside the periphery, the smell
of chlorine bleach and lemons.
The brown husk of a cockroach
beached in a corner of the room.
Who can say how limits are drawn
when water in fact isn’t separate
from earth, when the ground extends
as a series of linked platforms
under wells and lakes and fountains
arcing over granite slabs in the square?
You try to leave: like the navy sending
its fleet into the high seas, like lines
of birds moving in the shape of one
arm pulling itself away from a sleeve.
It’s no use: even in sleep you carry
the wind’s voice, its folded
handkerchief in your pocket.