I am a horizon,
thrown over the shoulder, like salt

Sliding down the wall in the hallway onto the floor

Many black doors banging like wings


I need to find a
place for the river in me
for the dead grey tree

His arm around the
horizon of my shoulders
in a photograph


Dream the fingers off the wheel
this is the hour of horizons

tapestries and divisions
the hour in a glass

kiss the salt



From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.