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