at least it’s this time today;
velveteen sunrise, up with
the swifts, their gossip.

the problem with having a
body is you have to carry

it everywhere with you.
mine has held the curlicue
of three babies & still

i’ve no one to show for it;
a hoard of manila medical

files cramped & yellowing.
at night i constellate stars
into dreamsongs for two

working feet, sleepskate
the lake, iron out the facia

of my butchered belly, wake
to a great dane in the dog
park straining to hear her

human, a house finch, crimson-
faced, fussing, earwigging

cranes, & sink into the same
morningly loss, the verity of
my bones, spattered on the bed.