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No idea but in things, the doctor wrote
and so I build with squares of rugs, frames,
curtains, art. A yellow bowl of grapes.
Sunlight gilding a wren’s tail feathers.
If I could make a sacred space, it would
sing with vowels: bassoon, rune, legume.
The problem with loving words
is all that ambiguity
to embrace. For instance
within the word “ventriloquist,”
there’s “trout” and “rust” and “silver.”
I spend my days circling:
cigarettes ground in the gutter
and crumpled masks caught in hedges.
Pigeons strutting through puddles.
But the red-brick alley near my home
is slick with snow and citrus dawn,
calling me alive to a new Tuesday.
Red grapefruit on the frayed tablecloth.
The house is cold this morning.
Words in the steam of coffee,
in the sunlight glowing
within the blue glass bird.
Copyright 2021 Sharon Fagan McDermott
Sharon Fagan McDermott’s books include Life without Furniture (Jacar, 2018). She lives in Pittsburgh.
Stained glass sun catcher (Etsy)