Ephemeral rain, quiet surface,

nervous system without appliances
disguised as daylight without shadow,

door opened to the sidereal
place behind the color grey,

root of mussels, nutmeg, and musk,

late morning of the first poem.

You who are concealed here, come closer.

Gaff, walking stick, umbrella, knives,
pen protect entrances and corners

through less fear of burglars than
of forgetting how to be neighbors.

We put our hands to these things
as to a tiller because they are steady

while we are the limit of fine dust
that settles over bedclothes and begin,

now, where the fabric stirs, to form
contracts.