A Clothesline in Winter

The wooden fenceposts on both sides bow to weather

and halfway between                earth

                                                                  and

                                                sky

our line slackens,

brushing the coattails of one                neglected

             cloth                 body

against a canvas of white.

 

What we’ve pinned to cloud

             hoping to dry               in time

clings to skin—                         grows harder

                                                                 than

                                                bone.

 

What is it we wear

when there is nothing left

but rigid names for impossible

                            unsullied

                                           things?

 

              From a frosted window,

we are dreaming a taught

                           connected

                                          thread

 

                                                     and figures

for the wind to make dance

 

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