Beyond the winter swimming pool
where the tarp caves in, its blue palm full of snow,
is the matted grass and weed lot
I am given each day at my kitchen sink window.
But beyond that, where the grass falls
suddenly, as if by earthquake or men with shovels,
runs a little river of moon-gray water.
This is where I bend and sway forward on my ankles
and the sparse straggled trees hold
chattering pockets of wind in caught grocery bags,
and the ground ends in one bold sever
at my place where I wring these red dish soap hands.