I don't need carp to jump out of the lake
to know disaster swims underneath
or see my mother's brain scan to know fear
resides in small actions
but I need to see slurry fog pull the sea into the valley,
before it leaves cars and starlings behind
to have learned a lacewing can nibble itself out of the web before the spider
knows it's gone,
that it takes a long time,
to make yourself a tube of wing
and not often but sometimes, I need to open coriander
husks for the dusty seeds, the bright bite
and when I'm away, before my day ends, I need your voice to tell me your day's story,
your voice that is aspen, sidewalk, bicycle, your name, my name.