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I ought to haul out this junk I called winter and lose it somewhere.

As a girl I was raised to sing along with the rest. To praise. Especially men.

Nothing is beyond texture. Wind mouths the shape of clouds.

The day holds a cup of milk and sits on the couch, legs tucked up.

I wanted to ask what her secret was but I was too busy knitting socks.

Euclid stands in front of his lover’s door, open to the last hours of light.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.

God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.

I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.

Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.

I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots outside in the night.

It was spring: the field, a botanist’s mirage of wild flowers.

I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.