A cup of browned water and a windowpane.
Earth-colored scrapes of canvas peeking
through the flowerbed’s painted squares:
a thin brush and cold two weeks. I dip my

fingertips in yellow pigment, spill my handprint
upon the unsoiled soil, clothe its hollow body
in threads as thin as bulb roots—

palm etchings. Like when the tree
outside my window shed its finger-leaves
and arm-branches: a barked bone,

warped and fractured. I drew in spiraled
twig-limbs and when the rain came, soaked
my skin in puddles of watered black ink,
let the fields dry gray. The illusion of being

whole—how I can paint a path
for a figure who walks for days
not knowing he has nowhere to go, a figure

whose face I see in the clouded cup
but don’t yet know. And with eyes
closed, I can still see purple
petal-stained charcoal lids.