Stopping by

Beneath the window's crinkled corner

and the washed-out, bent-up edges, the reeds flower

from sandy ledges, wet with grit and grey morning.

A lone pilot (boat, or sunless shadow)

sets to mourning the crude edges of breaking waves.

The lot caves and fills with water before the beach begins.

On a far-off island, narrow mansions lean in

to guard their sand-castles. Close by, the bracken

tassels weave through fences—taking care

to anchor against a wind looming (yet barely there

in an instant). At passing trucks, the stillness flinches

then settles. Bobbing beneath the petals of beat wings,

the jetstreams distend; the distance sings invisible.

To imagine smoke and tall buses here is difficult,

but I persevere: miles of missions, piles of things.