the pitcher measures the pour, precise

the road dovetails into the highway

 

a kettle hammers the air with steam

the maple raises its roofbeams

 

the cyrrilic alphabet sands smooth the roughness

            of language, lets it glide

            against the page without catching

 

seagull mitres its corners, folds

            itself midair                  turns

 

the moose’s antlers cut the distance between us,

bisecting it into straight lengths of alarm

 

absolution, if freely given, can drill

through all residual resistance and guilt, make

            holes                  for breathing

 

periwinkles smooth the contours

of the flowerbed, finish it with full green

 

the violin string, plucked, fits each vibration

into place

builds a shed of sound, roofs us with plaintive music