In the clearing, we built a glass floor on stilts. It is full of the smell of wax leaves and the rain
we keep in them, and the oaks, and there is no reason to leave again. The punctures healed
while you were out reckoning. We did incredible things with the canvas sails you left behind,
trained the canaries, the sun’s been moved to the hall closet, it slants from under the door,
and some days it gushes, and some days it mothers us.
