tails half-raised,
listening to droplets
that replace birds.
Nothing insists on motion.
Even the hours loosen,
fold themselves into folds;
you can hear the house breathe.
Some days call for miles.
This one asks for inches;
blankets to the throat,
music by the bed,
a book on its face.
Outside, water writes the same line
over and over
until we remember
how to be slow.
