A Perfect Line That Circles

Suddenly the goldfinches 
turn oddly obvious,
but where am I from
the morning at this point 
of day, turning words over 
into other words before
they fumble from my mouth 
to a memory of wishing
the walking away had
a different line of thought, 
but it never does in the way 
I think it will. The shadow 
of a cat usually turns into
a cat, but the deer lumbering 
into the creek sets my hair 
on edge, cranes my eyes
in the direction of a splash, 
makes me think of climbing 
a hill where the sun cast
no shade on the trees 
and no trees on the shade 
of your body slowgoing
steady before mine. I follow 
a perfect line that circles
back to the self stuck in a dream 
without joints to carry me 
through the weeks without
your touch. What’s a face 
that reflects back blankly? 
I feel the mirror and each 
of the thousand thoughts 
that only want to be let in.

Read more from Issue 18.2.