Slope. Tangent. Rise over run.

Even celestial choirs cannot sing a simple line.

Nature snarls herself. Look:

Convoluted nebulae,

Linen drying on a line.

Laundry involves negotiation.

The rope stretched taut, the wheeling wind

Converse, with all of us hanging on

Billowing huge, then floating back.

From high enough, the whole yard disappears.

Far enough out, the planet gets lost,

One more piece of the whole.

Hanging sheets becomes

An important decision.

Gathering them in folds despite the cosmos,

In the face of it,

Strengthens the will.

Give me a sign. Hand it to me

So I can smell it.

I want to be sure someone will gather me in.

When the sun explodes and the wheel turns,

I want deft hands and a wicker basket.

I want to smell like the wind.


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