shadow, a kinder body

of object, length
in the snow's natural curve

Her white language generates
dream        Her branches space oddity

where depth cancels can't latch on yet,
mouth the tender color
of mind enough to milk

Maybe her joy is development

Maybe her joy's recursive
voice could lead you like a page (leaping,

your blind faith)

You stand in the glass room where nothing
bad has happened           The moon

peals across a gnomic yard, a tunneling
breach the house

always ends in, the house
is a print whose language waits as dream

does, hoarding the code

rachel moritz