Illocality

To imagine a morning the first sounds from the street and the house, its halls scarifying consciousness Antique glass smudges limbs (more blue than green) flared out over a roof To imagine the raw circumference of a field as it wakes what we make of it where our senses send us Gray oscillates gray and the mountain a line lodged within it gone slack at the end No need to mention weather The yard— the measure An unkempt garden bed convulses synchronous with traffic flashing through the fence Stone bench in a ring of weeds Shadows ring— a sound Bees doused in viscous sun, erased