In Denver a small bucket sits on a porch
No one thinks to move it because the handle
Is broken
Your eyes watch the road, its never-ending
No one ever drives the other way, or not when
We are looking
The groundsmen walk the periphery, their
Anoraks match the clubhouse mascot
A shell, a flower
I remember a large ornamental brandy glass
Like the sky in the morning, light flowing though it
To the wall
The RGB settings on the rented Grundig,
Library LPs on Saturday mornings
Selfhood and sanctity
Everywhere the tiny bones of birds with
Their honeycomb texture and lines of ridges remind me
Of death, or its cousin: what is left
A poem by Lisa Matthews after a day of clear winter skies