fiddling hair, like reeds bent to a hum.

pine groves split open into Monday;

sunlight combs the needles clean.

the day still opening, blue after blue.

air’s choreography, worn in your mouth

lip bitten, cherry red—

a milky peek through, as if

speech were ripening

my feet keep time with the ordinary birds.

a woodpecker makes the measure,

and we are briefly a choir–

as resin yellows the hour.

what are you running from?

it’s sitting on your shoulders—

in the shade we set it down and count it as a stone.