One Moment, the Next
The sky is one pink blush this morning
pulled like a sail by the moon last night.
I sit with blood pulsed clear
before the jackknife.
The tractor
and trailer
fold, like a fan, then, open,
straight, as unripe steel.
Which is more vulnerable,
the fetal curl,
or the width of the stance?
The air pouring into the spiral of the shell
is a probe
a lance.
The ear opens sound
with two hands
like an otter, a clam.
A straight line leans
to dimension
sinks and rises like ink on paper
changes where it lands.
I reach within and pull nesting dolls,
connected as paper cut-outs,
lead them to convex, concave,
change the shape of the lens.
I do this over and over again.
With each breath,
a bend unbends
and leans close again.
