Having a small garden,
we strung two lines
close, from one
corner to
its near opposite.
When it rained,
when our shirts,
our small things,
were gathered in,
they shivered and
half swung with
new lightness,
here and there
pegged with strokes,
descenders–
our ps loopless,
our qs without
their handles.
Between these,
wordless spaces.
Hard to imagine
anything fitting
but the very things
just taken away.
vspr.st 