glass photographs

My body looked great against the wool
sky. I pinned one to the string.

You seemed so sorry then, that guy
with the knife to you, soon you moved.

At night, I light the bees on you. Kiss their legs
to sleep. These switches,
you whispered, and my teeth
hurt, my feet are cold, I pinched the sheets
that time in the dark
on your compound looking for the bull
in the dark

I think it is January

Face of which child
in your hands, wet bentgrass
up to my boots. I knew I was
knowing you still



my mother called six times
in our sleep I saw a tiny truck
with a feather in it