Corrugate my soul left breathless, I’ve been
away too long. Leave me dryspun among
cut stems, kick my screen door in and take what
you want. Dad or mum calling for dinner,
echoes in the loose girdle of soft rain
on shingles. Take my measure to find that
measures of loss have no chord or refrain.
The past proceeds in other ways besides.
But in grave, to blooms, the sun’s will
subdued and tossed around you like a stole
That light hung low between your backyard
and where you stand now. Out of words and depth –
repeating: to unpin softly the wind’s
far reach and anticipate the distance.