Photo by Torbjørn Helgesen on Unsplash

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow . . .
—Gerard Manley Hopkins

The place under the awning
            where it hasn’t rained.

The seat belts in the taxi all
            with puzzling or hidden buckles.

The daffodils inside my shadow.
            The glass of melted ice.

The spiderweb that I walk
            through before seeing.

My father writing me the day
            before an interview, Good lunch.

The toilet paper the woman
            at the supermarket asks me to reach.

The missing Venetian blind.
            The names scrawled onto a cast.

My mother calling me by
            my brother’s name.

The steps she cannot climb.
            The bend in the straw

from which she drinks.
            The letter that ends on a question.

The question mark like
            a necklace waiting to be clasped.

The forked lightning.
            Moss between the stones.

The words in the dictionary
            with dots between each syllable.

The clouds shifting overhead
            like elementary-school desks.

The flock of carbonation
            as I pour seltzer into a glass.

The way I sometimes draw out
            words that start with l and m.

The eye as it starts to water.
            The fiddlehead fern.

The steaming geyser.
            Spilled sugar. The Milky Way.

The park on a fault line. The old couple
            in the park on the swings.

Cracks in a bar of soap.
            The Finger Lakes.

The dollar bill taped back together
            and used as legal tender.

The spot on the floor where
            a wet footprint has dried.

The summer mixtape from
            a romance long ended.

My forehead, after I climb
            the stairs, barbed with sweat.

The piebald horse.
            The doll-sized carton of quail eggs.

The two images in a stereoscope.
            The synonyms for farewell.

The rainbow carrots. The toucan.
            The sunset on the roof.

My blue toothbrush in
            the same jar as your red one.

The lopsided way a puddle dries.
            These isthmuses called arms.