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.

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