It is a morning early in November.
Across the street, in the small city park,
leaves stitch dropped and dimensional
to the soil like French knots
made chaotic, to overlap, by hand.
The tops of cars throw mirrors
to my ceiling to move shining
on a track across. It is all
much like the movement of an eye.
Whose hand do I see but my own?
When I remove my clothes, the concrete
crosses cold with my bones.
The body and bread
of what I have keeps
particulate in this weather, pasted
as jewel-colored tissue paper
over white—a wash.
Imagine it, to wake with no memory:
like removing a lens
of gold grass from the field.
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