When Untouched

Hammock dumping

you onto bruised

grasses, frayed

thoughts droop

sideways, hammering

morning. Slipper-

footed whispers sashay

and whimper. “Nothing,”

she says. A stammer

of caught breaths. Murkier

than bog water.

You wade in, pinching

your hem. To luck

is to cough a chip

in the fog. Pound

the keys of your solitude

with forceps   on fieldstones   on terracotta

figurines chipping

in dioramas, tripping

on clodhopper faults

—oh gaw-odd—glottal

stopper caught

in the windpipe further

than plum pits and pit-

falls, paint and patience

clamming up, if only she—

a gash

in the dark. On thick

bars of percussive

strings, construction

paper mobiles ding.