2.28.13

What you are willing to do is
rustle in some leaves             and find

a blistered & forthright & grubby Present.

There is no again except this again. There is some old fabric that can be sewn.
The water in the pool is
not the sky,                     as much as it seems.

The sun shone on the metal roof and
I photographed the yellow center of the             hole it made.

Someone could call it burrowing, but there was the presence of heat.
Belief is not a thing that could bear being posted.
The breaking light became a curled beak,
                                                                   uprooting eyes.

You sent me a picture
of a bag and I thought:                                      what to put in it.