Glass Sight

Under a rising moon, it’s hard to swivel and break

the sight of children growing in bellies, even harder

to place their unfolding against silver rock. If poets travel

from one image to the next, what comes of the ribbons

of roads breathing between letters? There are ways out

of this sequencing        broad shoulders        flexing commas

young lungs. The crunching of leaves scrape the mind,

deer travel along the concrete. Their chance to exist,

the split second of impact when      broken antlers become the page.

The crack on the window unfolds to a map. This glass trail illuminates

like lightning        a child cuts their finger open and blood

boils out, like snow melting at the canyon’s mouth.