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She does not like to rest in dry areas
ants moving up
the tree even at night
memory on a racetrack around her heart
It could be a motion that includes houses
open the front
door, open the back, cat’s wish
raindrops fall, fluster or worry
20 ropes hang vertically from the barn’s ceiling
all with the handles
all in shafts of light
a straw smell, creosoted dust
She isn’t taught to use the french plow or the fork lift
eggbeater, vacuum
attachments, paring knife
romanticizing the shape of oak leaves
One half missing even when she rides her bicycle
she runs through
the creek bottom
she walks through Paris, Seville, Istanbul
Her hands two pieces of bread for a sandwich
First published in Xanadu, Copyright © Grace Grafton
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