before a wall of Japanese knotweed—tall, entangled—
see from above, a reel of green,

before the bones of the house fall, 
before the shed where I crouch beside the white goat,

hands firm on her teats, falls
before the walls of the pantry fall

before the kitchen, the second floor bedroom
where I curl with a man, the hay shed

the pig pen, all fall
my life is made of light

has it too fallen?
are those my days

sunk deep in what was once the garden
lost among roots of redtop, witchgrass

the wild remnants of hay?
yes—once hayfield, once

thick tomatoes on vines
diapers and overalls hung from a line

peapods snapped, beans canned,
sheep with black noses pushing

to get grain from my hand 
have I fallen into this earth?

the road still runs with its blue rip-tune
spring still comes to take back the fallen

I slide my kayak into a stream finally free of ice
frogs startle, whirligigs spin in 

crazed circles, on the shore arrow arum leaves 
cover earth, my paddle dips, rises

Cafe Review
Spring 2017