There is a neighbor drying the dishes in a wire rack
each plate filed under another prong. Open. Filled. Open. Vacancy.
In the next apartment, a pile of shells. The spirals exercised
under the pressures of sand returns the hollow to a net of light. Above,
each tarred shingle provides an understanding.
Starlings drag their bodies through the sky and back again.
Scatter then fall, collect like blood on the back of a razor
thin telephone wire. Jars and empty brown bottles
flood the space below the kitchen table. Within this,
concealed the idea of drowning. Kiss the sea. We’ve created a body
of permanent ice. In another room, shards
of apples fill a metal bowl. Water is water because we can drink it.