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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—