Margaret Davidson - Checked Heartwood

             I can connect nothing with nothing — T.S. Eliot

You bite at the side of your mouth
and I’m thinking scissors in a fist fight

of foxglove
struggling against a red fence.

Your mouth
is a month.

I’m across a river.
Stuck on a rock in the middle of

November.
You say one

three word thing
like an accident of birds

startled from a farm tree.
When I trace a tent shape

in the shadow your arm makes
I’m pitching our predicament

between two trains.