The return trip has a map already. Surviving in sugar waters, in rhythms of algae. / The earth in the hollow is breaking—I knew it instinctively, and in my mind, insects were swarming, traversing the city of your map.
Touch them, the tesserae, the shards of floating
glass, which skim the rain-full gutter. Not dead:
us/them—mere stutters, gluttons for new skin. Life,
peel back your veil. Now, see? See it again: To be dead
another time is a deciduous explosion.
And the cloud that took over the family’s house that Tuesday wasn’t made of your run-of-the-mill water vapor. It was so humid and heavy you could reach out and shake hands with it, and it would grab your hand and shake back.