dream of weather. the cork of sunlight.
the front yard with stones, stones in the attic and boxes
in the hallway, how roads divide not just from each other
but within themselves—

a fragment of sorrow.
in the dark of beginning
dream of corridors.

even the cells that divide, that thread
of skeleton splitting daughter
from daughter in your body, your heart.

you say, I've always had this dream, as you raise
an arm to the ceiling, pinkie to pinkie—

think of bicycles, of shut-ins with taped windows,
shadows damaged by small birds, cats. how a memory
could rest here, buoyant, a specific light or dust

and the places from which you have gathered me

a palm-full of sand, held carefully, the moment
when the prayer ends and each folded palm opens—

that moment of birth when our hands first lift from our
bodies, fragile, stricken, in wonder of
touch.