I've realized California is not far enough for me to lose the view of Devan
his eyes the same color as the lake
as the sky above the lake, of you saying he was a dragonfly with those fingers, a biological fact.
Do you find time to make art in China? What sorts of books do you want me to send?
Do novels still appeal in a language you're overwriting?
I am nervous in proportion to the brusqueness of my boss
my waking has been immediate,
forcing me to an larger context
like long ago on the porch with that portable typewriter
there should be a rule of silence for beginning gestures, works of engines
my heart broken in some
awkwardness in stairwells
like Julie Muz teaching you to box
I wasn't the woman for you
vacancies of honesty, shifting importance as we used to talk
That night under Orion's belt, you with your knife almost out
We walked to feel spacious, passing only moments from home
Erin Wilson lives in Oakland and works in San Francisco. Her work will be appearing this spring in the anthology \"hinge.\"