box of jars

alison palmer
What to Tend to
"Oh" comes to mind. I am slow
to lift, wait like a limb, a ledge.

The birds save each sound
for morning, a shadow of wings

wakes a cloud of bees. My body,
sketch-like, pitched slowly forward.

If I drop my hands from my eyes, 
an open dark; a room 

of rival light that scatters
to understand. To stay, a game

of what calls me, descends, or,
the way we sometimes hover.