IN ONE STROKE AS A CURVE
The magic number, thinks the girl.
Her fear of writing is years-long.
She remembers the unmoving stars in the sky,
A quaver, a percentage of a note, but she cannot be sure.
The maids are milking.
The girl counts her top row of teeth and counts them again.
She finds herself wandering in pagodas.
I learn of the unitary perfect, harmonic divisor, four-bit binary.
My mother told me six geese a‑laying are given a present.
And do you know of the polydactyl hand? Lucky!
Cells of a beehive honeycomb–why not count them?
The mole cricket spends its day in basements.
AT THE COASTLINE
Becky blasted us with bare nets.
Her shifts were limitless and grassy.
When she first appeared we thought
she was ghostly, a reversal of herself.
Her light hair was stippled with blue.
She understood us only by reading the way
our mouths moved.
We held our arms out
under the cloudy sky. Her skiff leaned.
In the smooth adherence of cloud to sky,
the boxcars are lined up and edging out.
Barns are the subjects of drawings,
a carving is strong and just a carving in stone.
Berries ripen in the hand.
The simple bed is too soft.
The channel is filling up with gray water and soft boats.
My hand is a carving spoon.
I have wandered out onto the disposable shelf.
This is trouble free.
The shoulder blades are even.
I am used to their counterpoint matches.
The wig is loose on my head, spines of books, even
from this near distance, are blurred and unreadable.
I shuffle closer. The characters, of which there are eight, seem
like curls of steam from the surface.