Spit around stark rooms to pack away darkness.

to pack away a few things into the whispers of a sea

or even a second. Mark of a tavern, mark of some snow.

some house of spontaneous jarring, of telephones

ringing, and the work still to go. From west to Milwaukee

this time with salt. There’s always what will re-ensoul those red,

white-veined leaves never stuck in dismantled jars, in beds

or whole spheres breathing over mustard seeds, over cuddle bug

arrangements, the record of which are still hidden behind their striving.