Charlotte Lieberman

How many steps does it take



to reach the low green narrow-



 



leaves which in a dream



were slowly being devoured



 



by cows and just a few sheep.



The animals are not hungry



 



grazing beside the wicker-



chair porch, you reading and eating 



 



a nectarine almost ripe.



If we could use any of it



 



our skulls would perforate,



 



would feel filamental



light braid itself through.



 



The pasture is a lawn.



 



Closely mowed it is



a household linen,



cushioned by sod,



 



made toxic by rain, peppered



by the wings of many insects.

She dreams of morning. Because the rusty lightcoats itself with inquisitive  steam rising acrossthe body of water, small stone-fruits createfleshy knocks against the slick pane inside your mind,almost visible. Who is there to ask. Who would mind to inhabit that time, or to be that age once again. This morning,  I watched a closely-trimmed dog,reluctantly panting, swallow the mist:he offered his own contribution of moistureto air. He chose not  to feed, and instead gougedtufts of Bermuda grass pushing the wet earth aside and reserving space for the owl’s shadow.