Sawtooth of crags, raptor nests, and shattered kayaks of ghosts.
Down by the freckled young river, born
while someone else is plumbing depths of silt.
I angle a cow skull on my porch so it can watch
the grass unfurl without end.
Through its sightless sockets, my eyes
angled to be replaced by another
loose federation of color.
Legs drawn to my chest, tight into a secret,
while moonlight strums the windows like dry fingers on paper,
like a whisper of unseen deer.
The pebbling road now asphalted and full
of hard destinations; always retreating I
sew together a course hide for the living room wall,
just above where my grandmother once rocked me
within television snow,
needle made from memory, memory,
memory and her finger bones.