Windows make me want to be elsewhere,
stop me mid air so I can plan to be cold,
scan what I've got in the closet to layer
and entertain potential worlds here in the house:
high maple holding a stone statue squirrel;
shuddering estuary slate-still before the falls.
So I am as much sitting at the black coffee table
as in the coupe seat driving through Chatham,
the wind blowing God's thoughts into my head,
memorizing the river that shuttles the hills
with strands of snow fall, clouds drawn down,
forgetting the lines of my hands branching
from the pattern of scales and feather vanes.