“selected for you,” December 21

portrait nothing like you are—stiff, propped up on pillow, except for some tension
wouldn’t know whether you were living or dead, orange striped comforter
ivy hanging behind you—not ivy exactly—tangled in the metal headboard

don’t recognize the staircase—leg over the body, two bodies
distant house. two bodies, one leg over the other, their tiny intelligences, their fur
—two bodies, recently buried (as far as my shovel would go)

the city—landscape—clouds, snow, bare trees, fog of an image of myself in the window
what was I releasing in this photograph, where was I taking myself
hanging over the field, worrying between two points

something sent to me—dense corner grown up that next spring—could once name the flowers 
now only colours, the bulbs we dug and stuck, spilling gasoline 
on my poncho, wrecking my boots in the muck—everything packed close
leaf-blower stirring the air

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