This morning at a certain time the sun
will align itself with the celestial equator:
You’re a lentil, pulp, a secret.
Outside the pear tree’s bloomed,
now sudden, starry white, snow
and winter’s end in the same glance.
Mammalian placenta’s like aspens,
a network of hundreds of trunks
dividing to limbs, then branches,
twigs, then thinner, feelers floating
in a shallow lake of murk and vitamins.
It’s not that the sky was pink—it was the air.
My daily passing under crepe myrtle bowers,
their crimped fingernail crescent petals
loosening from cone clusters,
nestling in my hair. I buy an atlas,
walk nowhere hours. I’m lonely—
funny, since now I’m never alone.