I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again.

Name called.
Not mine.

Wasn’t I
here first?

I leave everything on shingle,
meet surf like a sibling,
crest over playful breakers
and chase the moon’s tail.

We launched, lovingly
into dark and silky water
unknown yet benign.

You did not ask for knees —
They found the floor themselves.
Not from command,
But gravity.

That winter the snow kept rising,
a slow white wall climbing the windows,
each morning untouched,

I’ve been reading about ghost apples.
They are a real phenomenon, like how
everyone we can see on the wide street
outside this building is still living,

I tried to work from a van. Sitting in the passenger
seat listening to a guy whistle. His frown, a cloud
he lost when his mother died. Each wrinkle

Those full udders will slowly burst
spitting milk onto the grass strands.