It’s all made up. The light is
yolk-fed. Rearing. A sky
of egg shells, you will feel
discomfort. A crack
in your wooden table.

There are no real rivers.
No islands. There are no
fireflies to distil darkness
or the lamp of your hair.
Apple true and listing,
you will look for those names.

I arrange the table
according to hunger.
A box inside a lake
inside a piggy jar.
I can promise little.

That each glass holds
a field inside it.
That here, tulips aren’t
punctual or candy pink,
but a green click
behind eyelids.
Rain lull.

There will be rain, but
drops will feather
wind blown glass.
You’ll pretend they’re
mountains. Hills
you’ll call golden.

There is no forest.
A tree copse bends
its fallen garden.
Deer as only a place
for twigs breaking
underfoot. Jagged

pine tops to question
the placement of stars.

You will speak
grass. Thistle
the arc stream
of a water hose
caught midstorm.

You contest
a hill’s M-shape—
a venn diagram
you will call loss.

But I promise
the mouthworn :
Cheeks puddle
the sound of tractors
and lips lose
the reversed word.