This sun has a tree
for a ruler—to draw straight
lines across the ground.

Wet deck boards—the rain
has gone. Silent flocks of geese
pass beneath my feet.

Already the sun
is kissing the eastern wall
good-bye. Wrist. Mouth. Brow.

My cat's nose—that spot
on a statue rubbed smooth by
curiosity.

The geranium
leaf has a kind of moonrise—
like your fingernail.

Dream of an empty
hanger chiming softly in
the left changing room.

This ivory light
off the old, painted doors has
nowhere else to be.