untitled film stills
by Maria Vassileva

The line breaks in his field guide
leave just enough space in the margins
for him to translate pictures
from latin and english into the edgy script
that never intended to make meadowsweet
or steeplebush native. All descriptions
are abbreviated. There is a dedication
under the flap of the front cover,
right over the map of the region. It is signed,
blue ink that sinks into the printed ocean.
It was probably there
when he got it.

He reads it on the subway home, going south,
looking up to watch the other passengers
force a yawn and swallow when the train
speeds through the belly of the bay,
then turning sharply to the left,
where the lamps by the station
grow taller than the trees
at night. On the street, people in the late cafes
talk like popcorn fed to the birds.
The street where he lives branches off
and waits for the sound of a key turning
before it gets darker.

In the garden that closes
the door to his room, there is no
weather, except there is so much wind,
he has to close the window, draw the blinds,
prop a chair against the sill.
He forgets to put in a bookmark. It might be
the wrong coast he's looking at,
but he won't leave it unexplored, so he starts over,
working his way north, where a dried leaf
picked up from the sidewalk
needs to be scratched off the last page.

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