Augusta Funk

In sheets of rain the morning passes. I walk
to the store for vinegar. I don't wear my coat.
I admire the pink bathroom light, the neighbor's
quiet cooking and the smoke that looks
like a woman's hair. When shadows come,
I look at doors and there are people, embracing,
the sound of a brittle leaf going by. Step by step,
I am learning to walk backwards through
my desires. To find comfort in naming
the fragile acts as they pass. In the same clothes,
under the same expressive, bright sky, I let
no one touch me, I say my eyes are soft
at times and sad at others. Cool the sounds
my animal body wants to make. 2 am. 4 am.
At dawn, a great seismic wave launches itself
from the nearby lake. Not even snow can wake
me. My sleep spreads blankets across this town.