Beneath the window’s crinkled corner
and the washed-out, bent-up edges, the reeds flower
from sandy ledges, wet with grit and grey morning.

A lone pilot (boat, or sunless shadow)
sets to mourning the crude edges of breaking waves.
The lot caves and fills with water before the beach begins.

On a far-off island, narrow mansions lean in
to guard their sand-castles. Close by, the bracken
tassels weave through fences—taking care

to anchor against a wind looming (yet barely there
in an instant). At passing trucks, the stillness flinches
then settles. Bobbing beneath the petals of beat wings,

the jetstreams distend; the distance sings invisible.
To imagine smoke and tall buses here is difficult,
but I persevere: miles of missions, piles of things.