The black that is green, sky that is
summer, the woman without
a body, grown inverse.
To open a book because
there is no one, driven, to else
If the invisible animal who climbs
onto your sternum is not
communicative, assume cat. They steal into cribs
for breathing, though you are old as snow.
Your own children have fed
and housed strays and you cannot any
longer protect them from these blatant acts
of kindness. You used to
You told the oldest he need not
save every single one. He left you.
They are all leaving, wind, you signed
the slips. Mars—
though it isn’t vitally possible.
Each day you try to etch again
the self, synapses made circuit.
The process is subtractive, mother-
boarding. A transhumanism. Loss
the goal, to build ships
fast enough they are carried away.
A crypt of currency. How often did you after bed
glide out to the farthest edge of the yard? The dogwood
hanging over gray fence like a caught fox.
You thought they couldn’t feel that?
On tiptoe they watched your habit of
argument with the night, heavy eyes fighting
to stay open, to lift, then trace star-forms beyond
the deep sill. Contented stars
you’d told them. What lies