Now stippled in white and pink,
the arms of pear trees and magnolia.
Soon the green garden hose will uncoil,
a creature waking from winter. I wash
my hands in early morning light: it smells
a little like bread or paper. I'll try
to come back to this moment later,
when in the evening it is all stasis
or anger or partition, the wound
not looking at you, you not looking
at the wound and what dealt it.

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