On the last of the blue and green days
we put our feet in the swallowing river
and now the misted landscape moves
like a house with sliding paper doors.
Beneath a flock of butterflies,
a claustrophobia of school sores.
A cop car pulled out from under the desk, as I swept.
I am angry and I don't know why,
despite cherries and loquats
and the thrush that perches and hollers at our back step.
All aches in places, fever and suitcases,
as the magpies whinge up worms,
I stitch up the shimmy trees in constant breeze
and curse the threads that knot
and curse the threads that don't.
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