where the land dipped so steeply that the grass grew in loops, purple half-circles in search of light
splinters spread on the lawn in an exquisite accident

Lace curtains and leaves, or your spread fingers. I never did see your face.

Except that some years feel like they don’t belong in my brainholes. These are someone else’s years, I think. They are a slightly different color, the others around them notice something alien and shift restlessly, like horses, like when you hand a new mother an infant that isn’t hers and say “It is. It is yours. You did this.”