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See me present like ornamentation
My touch and care and grudges
Like sheen on linen they move, soft and without
residue

Of course there was, or will be, some event. Pain no
doubt

My hands make light of what my eyes look for
They find the measure of things unthinkingly
Polish wood by touch
Braid the hours of day, beloved like blond tresses

Nothing in this life is spilt – it bends
Like the surface of milk
at the brink of a full bowl

I carry these keys in my pocket
I’ve folded the world axis in the pleats of my skirt