a river takes the form of a snake.
or a snake a river. somewhere north,
a cypress grove grows in water,
roots buried deep in sand. it is here
where I wonder about a life. I wonder
about crows and how objects gather
velocity when dropped from a distance,
like stones or eggs or leaves.
I spend my mornings climbing an endless staircase—
it leads nowhere, and I accept it.
I pull myself through the stories
of this imaginary building, leaning on the railings
as I pant and gasp. I wonder many things
from upon its height. the surveyorship
of my temporary summit. this is how it feels
to climb a great tree, I remember. to secure
yourself in its split. the fork in its growth, diverted
from its upward attention by frost or sunscald.
I used to pretend I was flying, that I couldn’t fall—gather
velocity. I gather small rocks from the clear blue lake
at my parents’ home. the fossilized coral of a shallow sea.
in a small box in Virginia, I gather long hollow shells
the color of milk—tusk shells. I hold them at the end
of my mouth, and the air escapes like a whistle.