My daughter’s sleep / wave machine
becomes a granular datum of cheer
red outside the window, moon
horizon like a zipper
holding the inside suspenseful
and used. Maybe water on glass
will always contain all the glass ever glazed
perfectly, a cambered riverbed
presents itself as an invention of you—
trajectories of light relocate to form you—
and each avocado tree in the yard
bends under the pressure of attentive
mamas and goose-fleshed angels
in tight coats, broken glass
drifting up across the tree line into the birds
like some drunken dropsonde
just looking for that old weather we made
in the dark the light my Rorschach
of the small things hidden inside us still.
image credit: Bryan Derksen via Creative Commons
