Victoria Chang

I am impatientfor the sun to rise, for it to set, for the moonto put on its white mask, for the crow to startits daily lessons on love— how to slow it, howto hide in its switchbacks. Why can we love, then undo it?

Once, homes were made of plaster, powdered lime and sand, mixed in with horsehair.Where did they get the horsehair? Did they hurt the horse,did they just brush the hair off? Imagine each home,in the middle of the night, sounds of galloping in walls.

What if we are birds?Does that mean we also standon wires, tenderly, weightless.Are we in front ofor behind the red-tailed hawk?The last bird must watch us die.

It is winter butthe poets are still coming.I once lived in atown where there were no poetsor children. The treeswere made of salt. When the windshook, nothing happenedbut daylight. There were no handssince there was nothing to take.