In The

Rebecca Wolff

how strange the road at five am
(exactly wakes up computrix)
were it to venture
successful manumission

half-seen and trill and ululation
down dark dawn in the quickened register
a hill I know full well

in My Imagination

simpers to the bay drown plain dissolve
against black remaindered sheet
scuttling pixels making for the hills
rattling sand an ever-clearing throat

unpathway through a mind and heart
in Occidental counterpart

shut up the clamshell

plain sight lurks
sooner still
and comes and comes

and breaks the musing
upon a rock

the breathing heart
upon the margin
and leaves its single-celled
a one-note lung

deciduous in tree
clucking for the morning to arrive
knocking its heart up its throat against
the bark

of morn
an ark. Make it

stranger still.