Like pain it came and left by halves
and now mostly it stays on,
a boarder too poor to leave.

Like cottonwood it coated scenes
of past lives, and now it breathes in
heady gusts of her, as chunks calve

from her ego the way a glacier loosens
its sides to water. Wind, like air,
is not like anything, she thinks.

Ivory sheers hang to blot
the sun's bright face close to solstice.
She didn't think she'd end up like this,

one of Macbeth's three witches
stirring words together, whispering
curses under her breath

like her father. All tenses conspire.
Sun lights hearts of ivy, the yard
overgrown, as when desire

first departed on its thin-ribbed horse
for another land, and the door
slammed shut of its own accord.