Burn blisters from the woodstove,
the whole of my dog’s snout, a
frost-shattered axe blade and the
fine thread between what I want
and the ditch of sky.
The fine line
between my silence and splinters
in my palm. A mouthful of thistle.
The burden of indifference, difference;
an indefiniteness of standing. A bird’s
eye view of the shoreline and a pocket
book of birds. A gift.
The blood of my
ancestors. The burden: the fork in my
blood. The fine line between being who
I am and getting what I want.