THE SHAPE OF SOMETHING SAID No time beyond daylight waving on the floor like spilled water, and so it goes. This window won’t hold the omens that pass. My mind haunts my body as my body haunts the room and there’s a glitch in the quiet, an inked-in echo. Sleep is a relief. Sleep and poetry. Not words, but the space around words anchors me to an hour. Across the street forsythia bursts from black rubble. Even inside, I’m surrounded by what wakes in April. No time beyond shadows spilled around windows. A nameless tree’s makeshift sundial sliding deeper into the mulch. TO A NEW FRIEND Daylight disassembles into sound— the hum I hold in my head is the hum you hold in your head, too. The poem, written or unwritten, is enough to see us through the thaw. Soon the fields will fill with names. Mud will rupture with indescribable color. YEAR’S END (WINTER SOLSTICE) What began with bewilderment ends with fatigue. Pixelated days dispersed into static we mistook for speech. We stopped listening how many shocks ago. The horror and how it hollows. One way out is to locate grace in a walk and receive a tree’s bare but bright frequency. Notice the waxing gibbous afternoon moon smudged above a shuttered Bank of America—lucent, resigned to its transparency. See starlings expand and collapse like lungs exhaling dusk. Now the long night, a long silence if we’ll let it find us.