the window is a derivative landscape
painting: streaks of blue for a sky,

With the completion of mindset
my life is in order, two weeks after
the day before.

Those times my tongue becomes a lemon
filling my mouth with bitter pith

I hide a knife amongst a bush longing to burn,
days like these are plots from a heathen’s bible.

My second cousin twice removed arrived in May
at her old nest in the eaves of the ruined barn.

A white cloak that folds like a shopping bag,
like a Pac-a-mac with pagan overtones,
much larger when unfolded than a pocket,
a TARDIS of a cloak.

I grow shoots, acid green;
climb the walls,
surprise myself.

It’s starts in utero, painted wood carvings thick as a
finger, gift
wrapped in nostalgia.

Made a list.
A record.
The dishes she ate.
Monuments visited.
In Paris.