by Nancy Pagh


The trivial float off to some other dock
built of gypsum and paint. A ceiling
sees what it sees. Knows what it knows. Lets
down its ropes of oyster seed
to sway in the night. When my mother’s hands
left my father, she buried them in a garden.
I don’t know the world itself, only a passing
likeness. It calcifies above my bed.
The shells could be ground and mixed into landscapes
disturbed here and there
by hands, by animals taking their rest.