The overlarge seas. Salt pressing
the blue. Still, some sparrows.
The sky. The tumbling relief of sky
in the after-winter seasons. Words,
their bright shattering. The wars,
new and continuing, elsewhere
and in the same places. Our village, its
versing downward into
a deeper rust. The church tower we
spiraled together, a punch
of cloud. I teach languages now.
A lengthening list of curses
and conjugations and ways of asking
for forgiveness. Love, its myths
of many apples. Our hayloft, its light
uninterrupted over sawdust. The foal. The
foals, that is, in sun. Your house. The oak
you sanded and stained
and lay upon when you hurt too much
to move. Your hair on the pillow.
The pillow you breathed against,
the scent of your hair against it.
Your hairbrush, in the dresser
next to me when I sleep. The flourish
of your silver in its teeth.