the molting days- thick at the gums and thick at the nails
highway one i only stretch wide at overlooks, Adrienne Rich dies forty miles
south of where i sleep. immediately, i want a a floating monument. i am not that patient so i re-read the floating poem, the one outside the window until splinter of the collarbone, heartbeat in chestnut teeth for years-
was it all a spell of lust and lonesome, the floating poem now below the tide pool
but now i am not a woman driving
along the bow of sea- the cusp of
my tailbone lengthening
we argue in the headlands and i am a field of wheat grass walked through
pushed down with just the wrists
