Geography as Sense of Fracture

A seam down the middle 
of each season, an outline

around every gesture
in the now. And there are

no mountains here, only
the silhouettes of boats

docked at the harbor; this
blue-gold shift searing

everything at the margins
before it disappears.

I own just one brass hawk
bell now. When it dangles

from a chain at my hip,
its toothed voice rises:

winged animal familiar
to any field. But I,

I am the one still laboring
to separate stone from seed.

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