Anne Heide



If I cannot recognize day from night. If I am anything but a trace.

I am vindicate. I am undone of guilt, unable to arrange the future.
Or see it even before me.       
The arrival of the car   is the arrival of the car                        with me not in it.
There was a witness to me. Who led out from me: a night stained.
Night filled with birds’ eggs. Night filled of storm.



My hands unwilling care for you                    unconscious.
My hands unwilling come for you                  direct.
Small string ties from a torn shore-lace.
Who says a lisp                       is more attuned
to actual speech.                           Then my buoyant body up—
I am alone                               and floating.
When r’s are slurred into w’s              round doesn’t become wound             but wound.

past simple home