Three Planes Pressing
I.
The seam between what is scheduled
and what insists on being touched
is not a line but a ridge—
something you could cut your thumb on
if you dragged it across the day.
II.
There is a verb for what soil does
when you pull a root from it:
it sighs, or it doesn't,
and either way the hole
fills itself by morning.
III.
Every box is a promise
you are making to a room
that doesn't exist yet.
You seal the tape and the sound
is the sound of a future
accepting your deposit.
IV.
Fourteen small completions.
None of them the day.
All of them the day.