There is the green that birthed all pine trees.

We were the housing and the housed,
meaning nothing except that
we were always occupied,
or to put it simply never out.

Coming home to days of heat
trapped beyond the door, to time skewed
by time away, the house bigger and
smaller than before.

I don’t know why I look to my mother
for her shadow never stays.

I want to tell my mother,
I made a successful loaf
in the bread machine you didn’t know
you were leaving me

How to become two-dimensional

Die. You’re soon reduced to a photograph.
Lugubrious Co-op undertakers will zip you in a bag
and keep you cold . . .

atlas bear
black-footed ferret
cape lion

This morning – Blackstar,
Bowie, those jazz swan songs
sputtering from the CD player,
wild trumpets that convulse
through negative space

the pool holds my face
 
my breath
ripples the water