A Theory of Windows

There is space enough in the world for one more small body, 
a boat, an unfamiliar cleft of constellation. 

Hello, field of loss. You’ve been a story of so much waste. 
I saw each thawing danger and thought still I could die anywhere. 

The foxglove, vesperal and wounded. Shards of witchgrass 
like vignettes wholly in the teeth of an orchard. I knew this place less 

because I made it empty and waiting for disaster. I have no other fight. 
To get light in the body you love you must crack it open.