with each strand
she finds
on the pillow

or sink

with each lash that curls
around a finger
with each

expression that won’t
appear because the brow
won’t furrow

or arch

with each void
she enters
with each secret she can’t

keep

any longer
with each song
she knows

how to sing
inside that void
with each face

she remembers
having—some saved
some not

with each chaotic
dance beneath
all the stars she can’t

see

in the urban night
with each sip
of coldness craved afterward

with each pink sky
dawn breaking over century-
old brick apartment buildings

with each palm
open she reaches
up and over resolved

A rift between drifters will spill
over a giant phantom’s epidermis

that goes on forever
like pi—never to be solved.

Some of us will be born airborne.
Others, nesting terns that follow

moon beam lanterns,
ready to be rescued on cue.

When we recover sight
of our first cove, we will know

it’s over.

It will be a geometry of ions
that contains all the questions

we will not answer during this
quest. It will be a disaster

of aster blooms to come next fall.
It will be the image of our age

as it gets written ten times
on a tangled vine

that has tumbled down another
ravine. So much will be left

unsaid

about the air that comforts
the prairie each morning.

Last night’s dream—another
lover (crossed off
the list years ago) talks

nonstop

in a back room lit so
irresponsibly. Her watch
stops. It’s past time

to leave. She can’t
make out the license
plate numbers

through the glass.
She slips through a door
without hinges. Outside,

it’s colder than she
remembers. Back inside
and repeat. Snap.

How can she know
till she sees it?
How can she see it

when his fingerprints
block the view
from this angle? She chooses

the sting

of substantial windchill
over the agonizing drone
of lies. She awakes

hours before dawn
this time of year, a bag
of screws beside the bed.

Dust the unplowed streets
for fingerprints. Winter begins
to look like winter. Criminal
squirrels and wild turkeys
scatter up the hill. Fingerpicking
hibernates inside gloved pauses.

If glass wall mullions
are people with limbs dangling
over the edge. If she dreams

about you (again), a figure
that saunters up an aisle,
the world suddenly muted.

If the drug has a half-life
of a month, and it’s day
one. If you know the lyrics

but forget

what they mean. If snow
is perception, not weather.
If the side

effects

of living
on the sidelines. If you do,
indeed, still have the potential

to love and know how
to map the Little Dipper
constellation in freckles

on her left arm.
If you do remember
where the exit is,

and existing

is wherever she
identifies the voice
whispering: “Nope,

still no driver’s license.”
If it’s no one’s fault
the owl left early.

When the elbow sinks
in + the muscle releases

its grip.

When the radiators begin
to hiss on an early January

morning in Minnesota.

When the unleashed
dog smiles back +

anger leaves your body
for even one breath. When you

touch the contours
of my face. When you tell me

I could become
a real girl.

When the wings we grew
together under the cold gleam

of a full winter
moon finally lift us up

and out.

the sculptures say a bird
the birds bleed a cloud
the clouds calculate a berm
the berms bleat a sax
the saxes suppose a window
the windows whisper a bucket
the buckets boast a verb
the verbs voice a shadow
the shadows shudder a hammock
the hammocks hum a gaze
the gazes grant an ear
the ears echo a lake
the lakes list a breeze
the breezes bet a pier
the piers posit a stump
the stumps suggest a silence

as I surround them with these
stones in motion again

If she could accept being this small,
hiking down a suburban sidewalk
alongside a six-lane

street. If she

could outrun the heavy
breathing, the footfall
on a semi-plowed

trail miles and days ago.
If she could decide
which way to go.

The bus lane: ruby or rose.
The enormous sculpture
of a rooster: cobalt or bruised.

The snow: bleached or ash.
Those tree trunks: silver or copper,
Shriveled drupes that refuse

to fall from a shrub
she cannot identify: umber
or rust. Dried blood on an animal

she cannot name:

maroon

or midnight. If she could

turn around

just once

to meet herself.

In the middle
of the week, a new
day in a new year without

a prompt

to steer my way through
strangely calm waters.
It’s so clear, I can see the bottom

where the crayfish crawl.
No ice or wake to block the view.
Outsized snowflakes float

in the air in no hurry to fall
to the lake’s surface,
or my outstretched hands.

Painted the color of the water,

this wooden boat
knows so much more
than it’s willing to tell.

I’m learning to work with it.
Unlicensed and unleashed
upon the morning.

You divide the circumference
by the diameter
of so many things:

A hubcap left on the side of the road.

The green inside
a traffic light that swings
in the wind ahead. The red
and yellow ones too.

Another utility hole cover.

The rooftop to a bluebird
nest box in the prairie.
The base of a street lamp
up the hill. The cut
log from a poplar tree.

And the circumference
of the reclaimed
permanently muted
bronze bell
in that “For Whom”
sculpture you pass
each time
in search of
a perfect circle.