“My life is the gardener of my body.”

             —Yehuda Amichai, tr. Chana Bloch

I will refer to it fragment upon fragment:

long yellow on the diagonal, a theorem about late arrival,

shorthand for a being in danger.


A condition of remembering is that the wound be properly dressed.

Surgeon clutches microscope and magnifying glass.

Scalpel retreats to its resting place.


In the epilogue, we hardly recognize the body.

Mind rations its hunger.

Organs give way to the metronome.

Skin contours the borders of its census-designated place.


What little remains of us after:

a sense of timid passing, a stumbling river.


No moment is given to obliteration.

Make room to rest your fear and anger.


Finally, leave space for light to enter:

a column or confession, a sketch for post-processing,

parenthetical existence that suffices for certainty.


Every stone, leaf, stick, and grain of sand will be built of your memory.