harbor

by maggie nelson, from shiner

not quite at home in the world
and turning toward the terminus

night-swimming with my sister
who stays back by the shore

the force that gets the body
out of the soul

what's person is what you hold
in your hand

a bottle of catsup
the pour of green water

if i were to escape beauty
into the season of giving

i would give to the birds,
the sad, and the leaning.

i would use simple language
to describe the forest. failing that,

i'd find a piano.
nickel body, nickel world

you are a figure illuminated
from behind by a light.

the underbelly of sunset
the rattling of blue logs.

the house is over. that is,
what you never went back for

has been loaded into a dumpster.
a bridge is an arc of green lights

over black water. this is memory
weather, and i remember

the roof in summer. how it stood.
how we stood upon it.