I paint the circle
green and think
it is ripe.
We cross our feet
near ant hills and
weeds
and the sheet of
paper stretches
in front
of our legs. We
draw without
stencils
while behind the
half-shutters of
our house
the two shadows
that move our
blood
bend and slice
like fine hooks
in the currents
rushing below
our heaviest
roof.
