a manner of revolving
like silhouettes of remembered weather
further down in years
she inoculates medicine
in the rachis of feathered sleep
always setting the bone like the book-
straight and closed, her hands
the color of calendula
a bitter swath of myopia lacking.
I want everything
to begin with returning.
I pray for the riots to rain or for at least
the herbs to grow
wider than my harvest arms can hold.