medium II

the pencils lay in a neat row, glass under and over them, the glass jar
shattered on the tile floor; outside three tall shapes, rounded over by snow.


i don't know when the jar broke
there is no sound to tell me

i don't know what the pencils will draw
flesh, the guess at flesh

outside there are three tall shapes
rounded over by snow

they become a nostalgia for me
of i don't know what

sandals, California
those days that arise sometimes

in cricket and river-scent
from moveable type