How many days I’ve tended
in a seven-mile radius,
a circle drawn in marker
on the back of my hand
I walk between buildings and do not leave
A child on 76 acres I imagined myself
clear in a city—
would always be moving, I thought
Felt trapped by expanse,
land gently cupped like open palms
Mountains close to catch individual trees
and far enough, too, for sky to fold
over a person when outside
The body might lift, you’d think, from the hayfields
You might be seen
*
But now, in Seattle, I’m often frustrated
by the difficulty of getting over
Best views in slots
from bus routes, split gift blue
at the bottom of bridged space
*
My mother always said my eyes would change
(hers born blue, then opened aureate
in rings around her pupils;
in her twenties, gold pulled
over whole to hazel)
It’s true mine started blue to take
on that mineral brim
but I don’t know that there’s another shift in me
hay in loose bales around black wells
ungathered the same for years
Eyes astigmatic, my father’s
myopia looped in uneven ovals in my head
At night I close
one eye to see the page at my face
Held a foot away, lines soften and tangle like sewing thread
drawn too close to itself by the hand
