A necklace of fireflies
burns at your throat. Your birthstone is emerald.
Once recognized you begin to go round
in tractable patterns. The service of spines,
of passages. Looking through scopes
and Navajo trade beads, the best astronomers
are insects with quinined antennae
and segmented bodies —
a sympathy for social order.
At critical mass two minds in a house.
The physical fact of a wife, dry wings
brushing like ghosts through walls.
The common-propertied cotyledon
uterus. A series of ropes,
suspensions and guywires.
Do not say ‘clamps.’
Do not say ‘hooks.’
Fists packed tight — silk scarves
in a suitcase. Latches and finger bones
straining. A forehead round as can be.