From the Fishouse

A heat of birdsong
brought her around.

A focused world,
that sound, an egg-yolk-deep
glomming on. It could have run down
her spine slowly, like slip glaze
on ceramic — coat of earth at its most casual
that would shine —
as it went.

Bright against its background
she wanted to collect it:
pigment her palm, reinforce
a gloss of oils with which
to Vermeer this lawn chair, ashcan, this
backyard over-heavy,

translate to gentle light on turned cheek
like a letter read.

The finch song would have to be
brought open again, diffused back
out from orange intensity
in order to subtle that startle jolt.

A biochemistry text lay open in her lap.
The usual horizons of X and dear Y:
backyards that she’d sat in so long
the sun upped and set
as often in a grid
as it became a melon
tossed smoldering to God.

And in the night: the approach of glaciers,
veined with blues like gold, sky, death
far into themselves.
Her dreams of a continent’s leading edge

refracting again. Again
conversing for miles down, tender.

Eons had something to say, compressed but unfolding.
Slow sound of her nightmares pulling
toward an open ocean
they would not reach before generations
of snap-awake yolk-songs exploded.