Reedy striations don’t occlude the beneath— earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,
tips protruding, tender-desolate above a mirror surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,
tickle-brush, fringe. Buff block-shapes further down, ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.
My thrown stone skitters on ice. The next, larger, plunks through and for a moment I am a violator
but then I see it opened a bubble cell, a city, a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous. Ellen Doré Watson is the author of Dogged Hearts (Tupelo Press, 2010). She’s the director of The Poetry Center at Smith College and lives in Conway, Massachusetts.