I have lived for years
in a small white house
beside the ocean.

I have lived amongst farmers
who dye their fields
and talk precipitation.

I have lived with a woman
who writes to herself
in a room of words,

words that move side-
ways like the nictitating
membranes of birds.

Sometimes she utters phrases
like atmospheric optics,
and I know there’ll be rain.

I don’t mind the words
my finger can trace in salt
on our table, but I’m still

troubled by the strange
locutions of light
found in the feathers

of boat-tailed grackles,
and how caterpillars
come to have wings.

I have lived with change
as long as I’ve lived
with the same sun lifting,

each morning, a dark
cloth from a cage
of rearranged continents.