Four Poems

Atoms on Loan

        for Bill

The eyelid of a stone in my hand

flutters, and then it opens. I say, Hello?


For a moment, I was a woman with her son standing under an arch made of ancient rocks in Scotland. (You took the photo.)


For an hour in 1981 I was a girl with drunken hair in a
swaying tower.


For a month or two in my twenties I paddled a boat made of lead down a river of blood with my hands.
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