preface me with only. This memory of yours
Terra: somewhere silent you are a wide soil
Lover: under flowers now it is not a face
Mother: you could treat us secretly.
Branches: somewhere your forest is permanent,
Terra: you are the last background
Mother: it is what you think.
Mother: it is a vision by distance.
Window: on either side of you we are marking desire
This poem came out of a trouble with what we accumulate behind the way things are. It was written to be read behind a playhouse in Joe Wenderoth's backyard.