Strewn heat lingers
on the landscape, doing
nothing
and fills in
the gaps with less
and years and finally. In weeds,
a flirtation of wind;
slight shaking,
promise. Light vaults
again which is
consolation, desert-full
of its rows and spill.
She in her large
silent body disappears
into practice while
ravens circle
bellicose
with longings. So impractical
how she writes
her furniture
with fingers, a pencil, pocking
a picture; she is living
in a dirt hut—
living on
the wall, a severance
of space. Sturdy,
rehearsed. The foreground
continues
lucid and the entire
place is
what she can find, not an edge
but a whole
kaleidoscope
of margins.