Enamor

These northern potholes could be
sculptural—but no.  Wild ginger

in her hair, no one’s going to tell
her fest is not

a word. Rain
won’t dissolve

the definition. She’ll know by scent
when to pause, take cover, push on.

Incipit

He said she said
there would be no more
words running loose
down paved streets. Potholes

in the sky
over Wisconsin wreck her
concentration as she flies
into the silence

of colors and shapes
ready to be made.
Let the cantillation begin.