Thea Brown




Better attuned to architecture, lacking

experience of mountains rearranging

themselves to pattern, where domestic

space falls into geographical logic—a lightened,

dull-sparked shifting.


And even then it’s raining and the turquoise

Ford Taurus across the street is killing me

with its practicality. O, my testimony;

your dull black shoes and my patio tomatoes

we keep watering despite poor yield. The minnows

in the koi pond cut left, flicker at the sun.

Even so, I can walk all between the trees;

little undergrowth troubles the leaf litter,

and the deer paths draw scars.