flying over new mexico
above the second sea level
clouds,
soft cursive
fleece rising
up out of
mauve
and lumps
a second sea
level, a blur
of foam
and one line-
crayon
for a moment
the city at night
little my city bright
and i am coming
down in
a letter to owatonna,
the monsoons are here
dust floating
around
dreams in the middle
he was scratching her back
and her arms the sound
too loud
and my brown dress
too short
my bones not showing
enough in my knees
i didn’t expect people to keep me
while i was out there
yawning on trains.
i remember daniel.
splinters.
we are growing a vegetable garden
and reading milan kundera.
vertigo
being buried,
kirsten says
“i don’t want to hold something
that when you hold it
it dies”
dreams he is
kissing my knee
