the space that feels like wind upside down
smells of the moment floral rounds the corner

and meets at the brink of the forest
then holds, as if the groove in the hollow of a fir

the one
from that last time

peeled back–remember–when that leaf caught itself
between the hood of your boot

and its relatives created a symphony below
it rocked like granny used to

when she was wading at the edge of her bed
pierced by rays, while the sky ate away her eyes