LILY BROWN

Winter air against the too-long light,

downcast eyes against the question

just spoken. Did you want

an answer? Or a disconnection?

The puppy's muppet feet light up

my unease, a habit of staying

in the crisis

too long. Light stretches

its flecks inside crunchy ice

in the darkest corner

where the roof makes a mean angle,

drawing shade,

mold, ice inside the walls

we've built and jointed.

The hens are vocalizing

just beyond, disclosing their eggs

to the woods.

Outward—to the woods

or the ocean,

to one of many bays,

the one where water fills

and empties the cove like

a green genie

moving in, then baring the slick

mud as the tide ebbs and dark comes

with the heron's creaking

cry, going out over the water,

a fast-moving rain,

odd beauty of a thousand

dead fish, a scallop-edged

mass lulled by the tide,

without a will, out of consciousness,

these many silver shining dead.

AUTOCORRECT: TWO