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.