in the narrow back yard of sixty-four
can be found a kind of life – some of it is wild.
a picture frame to step through. a meridian.
reality is such a simple trick, it imbues this view with –
what? i wash the cutlery. watch rain-streaked glass.
frame within frame over concrete yard.
every word from all my early films,
return. my wrist, my fingers, submerged.
flamingoes, ore-pink, twist of tines,
with little or no need for a trampoline.