I knew it in the same sky where I lost the constellations
all those stars making hunters and warriors

I knew it in the smokebush valley
when my shoes were caked in mud

I could point to every tree
and tell you which ones were poisonous

Last week I blew onto a foil pinwheel
the wind turned it round into beauty

my hand was pressed to an open door
my hand was pressed to hypoxia

then the faucet dripping
then the guilt of not loving it