can seem threadbare
down-right holey
a door opening in a tree
nothing coming out
nights when frost gets lost
in drawing ferns
a fly on the windowsill
rubbing the dust from its eyes
a feral cat hunting voles
the fear in their fur
a joy glossy as bitumen
playing for small change
on one roof two dishes
set out for the same satellite
above the hospital
a cemetery angel
stone wings growing
a new green coat
