not by meaning,
we fall precisely through
the ornamental
and find the original space;
but lazily,
it doesn’t matter.
the western hedge,
after the clover—a new tide
laps the meadow;
a perfume lingers
here, but is always passing.
it isn’t a matter
of color anymore:
it’s so familiar—like touching
our own skin.
we occupy our place
completely,
not by knowing