– – (Part)
I’m unsure

what is happening even

as it occurs. It’s spring, to 
be sure. E.E. Cummings is on

the rise & quickens with the running

sap. (What season was he but spring?) 
In this moment, I have lost my train, misplaced

my concentration, and in straying, I’ve discovered

something else and in finding this else I have mislaid

my sense of direction.   
 – – All of
these accents are mine. (Little gifts the size of

syllables. Little gestures the space

of nodding.) 
(- – Whole) 
I have wandered into

beauty: magpie chattering 
by the lake, foisting

its anxiety, arguing 
with itself. The sun wears

a pale yellow dress, twirls,     then stands along 
the wall minding the clouds.

The security guard calls me  
love, and I walk into the building

backwards. Nothing is free,   
though there’s no entrance fee.

        Everything around me is man- 
made, except the water’s ripples & the king-

parrot’s whistling. When impulse                       lurches, 
and I find myself

in an empty gallery,
what are my hands

                                           holding?