box of jars

Hila Ratzabi
Ridge Road

Window glass against gray:
framed trees.

To look through, to excavate everything
I thought the world was supposed to be.

To look through, to pluck
fossils from the stomach.

The grass outside is muddy,
pond trembling.

The road has no fingers. So what
am I feeling for

in my own hand?
What missing weight?

J. is sleeping on the bed,
knees curled around a dream.

He drove me here,
got mud on his pants.

If he's terrified of the future,
he hasn't said so yet.