To endure calamity’s split, I turn to each bottle
of milk cold in the well and
speak to the shards of noise
under my pillow and the eggs below the bed.
The sky looms so large from this window, but the hill
cannot be seen from this vantage.
Crowding the sky, a half-breath
demanding to be unwritten and passed over.
Eggshells in the garden. For naught. I dream
of locusts. Swarming weather hesitates,
brings with it a new definition of sorrow.