Martha Oatis

kind-of forest—
simple brush of
snowstream
on the arm of
the sleepy
animal there

anxious pulling—
the moon
seems as if
made of
   liquid
about the
red river—
stillbrook—
fever of stones
still in sweatbark

a four-limbed
    tree
ever-forward
gleaming
in an outward
angle

few voices
  distinguish
themselves
in the attic-corner
of this
room
as yours did

your person
slips
inevitably
except
that you
  are one
fevers me
around the
street-mind
I keep
in the distance
made—

allowing
just these
  drops
into the atmosphere

a future
    child
unquestionably
at my
doorstep
past the
well
cramping
  my goodmind—
and my nightmind—

if there is anything
to follow then
the window
on a top
floor
and then chairs
ladders
satin quilt layers
and dust-skin
moving through
the hole
   in charge of
   work—
morning

and then morning
  missed—

as usual
fixed for
    rough feet
the ladder
attached
   to the foot
   of the bed
and the
window
to the tree—
evermore—