Like some Sunday afternoon, my years emerge— / a car ride through the country then the city then back, / the maple trees, flax fields, rivers: a distance / but so close that memories are puffs of air on my closed eyes / and so it goes, and so I go like everyone / existing in small rooms, waiting.
You=negative 2 z-score: / the pink graphed line / a dying downward swoop. / Wasting: Can you / fit into a coat pocket? / Here the lake pounds questions / into the sand, / receding / and asking again.
Had we known its connotations, the way a word / can rot like fruit, the outer layers growing / vulnerable and soft.