too tiny: how people get out of
the tide, of the sea, when
they try harder when reaching
for the shore rife
with reeds, being born
is not to die too quickly. A ladybug
beneath a Mondrian painting
of a tree, and behind a
sky turning into vacancy, into patterns
without leaves and how blue the sky,
with brown lines.
*
And someone
running by, as if everything could be
revealed out the window, the sky,
as if we could frame our picture
so wide and take the glass to hold air
close. Why not hope. The ladybug
off for good. To fall against the water
even if the tree is taller than it looks,
to roll the outer embankment
up like paper, the upper slant
of shallow water, rolling
into the current, over rocks in the picture,
the lines breaking the road,
the tree lines of your sky like permanent ink.
Open your eyes. Running down your cheek.
