is a clothesline hanging
between two trees;
the words, hung by wooden
pegs, move with the wind.
Between the lines, punctuations
of iris, peonies, bleeding hearts,
and a meadow that stretches
as far as the pines. It has been raining
all night. Someone I once loved
appears in the margins; I no longer
remember his name. The wind roams
through the trees, and two crows
resume their argument, not caring
anymore who’s wrong, who’s right,
make inky tracks across the page.
The fog of memory blurs the text,
words running wild in the field.
I hear horns blowing, as the boat
comes into the harbor, my grandmother,
a small girl, looking over the rail
as the new world rises before her.
I smell steam rising from ironed cotton
as my mother slicks down the sheets.
The blank pages flap in the breeze.
What else can this poem contain,
except the world, and everything in it?