I've realized California is not far enough for me to lose the view of Devan

his eyes the same color as the lake

as the sky above the lake, of you saying he was a dragonfly with those fingers, a biological fact.

Do you find time to make art in China? What sorts of books do you want me to send?

Do novels still appeal in a language you're overwriting?

 

I am nervous in proportion to the brusqueness of my boss

                                                                                           my waking has been immediate,

                                                                                           forcing me to an larger context

like long ago on the porch with that portable typewriter

there should be a rule of silence for beginning gestures, works of engines

my heart broken in some

awkwardness in stairwells

like Julie Muz teaching you to box

I wasn't the woman for you

 

vacancies of honesty, shifting importance as we used to talk

That night under Orion's belt, you with your knife almost out

We walked to feel spacious, passing only moments from home

Erin Wilson lives in Oakland and works in San Francisco. Her work will be appearing this spring in the anthology \"hinge.\"

 

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