Girders
The teacher underlined her words to lift them out of our reach.
Sometimes I wonder why I’ve never seen a bird trip over a telephone wire.
As children we thought that the airplane wings would be soft.
Perhaps if they had left the raising to the fields we would have spoken birds.
At the edges we were afraid not of jumping, but of jumping without reprimand.
To you falls are objects, like drops; larger droplets: something to leave dirt matted to roots.
I walk down the hill and think that everything with doors could be empty without my knowledge.
I want to tell you that the fields are not empty if you crouch
And that Cantonese is the closest language to birdsong
And that the hillside sways under a weight with no upper bound—a ray back to the sun.