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From The Rooms Where We Are
The room where I’m
kept is all        glass.
The map   I inhabit
thin        my walls I

coat in dust    from
shells             that I’ve razed
myself.      The nacre wearies
me.               I lack attention

too often turn to
the river below.          I
          hope it will light
blue and shine  brazen

brash attention seeking send
message scrawling.  For this
I clear a wall.
                        I keep a math.

Something inside this house
won’t hum.          The sound
of waves is gone
               the weight of them

thrown down  dragged back
still some rasping       sound
slips               a gathering in
thin groves of bare

trees   holding the heavy
hurl of wind            from
my house         thin walls.
I wonder what will

break me?    Why won’t
it come in                this
wind so invisible    still
lingering still lulling me

But light is not

                     wind. I sent it.

And the sky went

gray               lost texture. I

tried to still it.

        Then smoke. Then cars.

Then diagonally.        A gull

cutting across and screaming

Let me live—
           where cove ice is
coming fast   where gulls
cinch invisible lines  rise

on updrafts.        What grace
is that?       To drop
shelled sustenance lower to
feast?            My dream was

me               a boat again
a middle and—
               all night the ice
got thick surrounding me

I stayed.     Wind harried
me hard       shaking I
was into and      against
the shape of     myself.