To Come to a Window Too Close by Kate Thorpe

to see the lines in wood, the road.
The bitterer we athletes are
the more we hope, we wish for
work, ports answer back
the world: the wind would blow your horn,
a bridge we walk along, a pond, a river
stretched across the sun, skin covering up whatever
lies beyond a boat I cannot
get into, a hard sandal, a shoe.
The rain in dots, the day backs
up when time is wet, can lean
against you when you do not seem in any way
intact but lost, magnified, coming up.