The return of good measure

into the scrimmage throwing off
any triumphantly patterned blanket


a milestone for cupped hands
placed in the cup of the world


defined mainly by hands
weighing, she clears, lifts swathes


pacing, runs a clever
palm across the top


unconvinced by the need to campaign
saying, “I should’ve done this a long time ago,”





consternation as she sweeps
tearing audio into new, vivid strips


where incompleteness is letting
it lie against nothing


scoops labeled “small” grow smaller
items move up or back in the queue




under a bubble of hair the secret
histories settle in blackened pools


she stirs, steps over, briskly walking
onto the sound stage a hush


expecting those stunned cemented
faces to crack in welcome