i watch papa bury our dog in a grave the size of a pond


mauve, sprigs of oleander—

ceilings shedding water

stains in shapes of crooked
eyes—my jaws lock in mid-sentence

and hands cover your last white
leg with dirt
                                             i name it

a lighthouse: a jar full of salt:
a longitude line    undone

summer barely opening her dress
but the shutters singing