Blocks that gird the grid. Squares of the rigid angle.
A bone dreams like a girl. The page’s fracture is her trace.
Chunks of it. Lit, from the urban perspective. For a slice.
You can take shadows as a gown. Or an author’s lost lines.
Lines of force. Intersections that anchor the holy. Here.
Where you’ve arranged the dolls. Your own hands were mothers.
Their shells. Lying on photographs of the battlefield.
These dismembered means in summer. Oils of sleep.
We bottle them. I will now profess oracular figures.
A white basin is distance. The silence you are making.
Because these many branches have unthinkable extensions.