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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