she is carving mice into mountains of paper
and there are holes in the drawers into
which you will bury the sun

she sends letters upstairs each Wednesday
a short walk to the park, followed
the sundials of sidewalks your feet
tap on the cobblestone
fled on the branches each as daybreak
ducked behind the trees

ate bread cross-legged on the floor
sang to me each limpid intimation
I laid on my back with the wind from the harbor
piercing into the creases
sewing together the walls in piano strings
rang still, wintered through this broken chord



she is carving mice into the sun
there in the ocean are their tired silhouettes
there in water's blanket-folds
I have shoveled the weariest tunnels



to search through the letters
-for six decades, although
in their collapses our graves, lungs
amidst illegible undertow