Now you live in your own sentence. A city
of ladders. A speech leans towards the shape
of thinking, and the tight part of any mind

bridges truth in three voices : light
chattering, mixed up and breached
by the sound of its story. By the lamp

that must take up such space. One lie
usually fits inside another, as most things
in three parts : past, present, and

night pulling our eyes forward. Hands
holding on to each other. A downhill
tread of years. Follow sand

in your voice. Water flooding mine.
Count birds still standing on the lawn.
Leaves the tree left. Still, water

winnows back a smell
rising from the vase to claim we, too,
develop in the dark. Don’t ask what it means

to arrive on the other side of the bridge,
but what it means to be unable.