When I speak of death, & I often do, 
                             picture a shoreline, cold water  
thick with a flash of early summer rain.  
                              Do you see a woman? 

Her skinny hands—     
               how they twist grass into knots?  
                                          I see a toddler, 
                    two fat legs stumbling 

like a little mad tornado.  
                                     She scoops him up, warm 


          honey in her arms. A gull shouts 
                               from a breath of cloud

          how it swims : white bird : lake