clearwater

it is fifty-fifty that she



ever gets it back. in



the gold room, the plaques



were all late for us, leafy



once, now fifty-plus



years overdue. had we



vaulted ourselves from the room, it



might have thinned, anxious



at the prospect of turn, of



crawl, of smoothing



that inability to burn. she



pulls her tendons tight for



the grass in these ways,



knowing only glare and, twice,



reflection. legs are



sectioned, heaving under wrap. shoulders



flake away in passing and



   are gutted in the lap.