BPR 53 | 2026
See that hawk? Why do I think it has something to do
with me—some cocoon that sits on a rooftop
and swivels its neck? Or even the empty boot
lying on the porch? The stiff button-down
swaying on the line? Or the bath towel on the rack?
What about the one root I give to the drip of ivy, or the green
stalk of self I parcel to a maple, to that floating branch—
all these gods of moments that turn like blades, same,
same, same and slide away in silk deception.
To go on like this splinters me into bars of shadow
filtered through the spindles of a staircase,
some before that sounds like a voice calling
from across a park, a before that bobs like a distant
buoy signaling deep water. In the rooms
of my thoughts, an attic fan churns,
and the piano suffers from damp, the F-sharp stuck.