Seven boxes for the country after. Box of wild green: the color of sour apple, dull bruise, blades of grass, each plucked against the heat of what we used to call summer. The saltbox, the one that leaked white all over. The lick deer came to in winter. The sea where anything will float and the water, they say, blind you. Box of hard edges, of knife blade, glass. Of wince, shirk, and the fear of being found out. Of needle and pierce, crack and cut. Box of body or thumb, the one held out to drivers or sucked years after childhood. The box of that god who is always tired on Fridays. So hope he decides to leave work early, that yours is not the life planned out when he is bored or lonely. But inside the seventh are bones and muscles, a set of directions. A map unfolded and the last box opened, full of cloud, mist, fog. Wish for wind or sun, something to blow or burn it all away.