Twin Cities, No Sign

Jenny Browne

Before every well-insulated house
a car breathes with no body.

I follow the three-pronged
pace of the winged, head

for the circling gray, one
of a thousand lakes, days, walks.

My boots are heavier than usual,
heavier than boots.

Even the slush hushing
too much, too much

of this human filling up
and in, opposite of tree

branches skinny and scratched
black against sky. Blurry line

between lake and lifetime.
But don't send the search party

out for my voice. I know it
takes two full inches of ice

to hold a body. I'm just edgy,
following the hidden bank, following

the ink-dipped goose ends,
surfacing buoys of belief

in the beneath. Half a being
broken by another

snowflake's circle changing
the surface without a sound.

Before

Jenny Browne

the yellow pine floor was done,

then mopped, carpets flopped,
warped windows

shaking as the spin cycle begins

there was another place
and footprints
before boards Wind
before breathing Leaves
glittering in the back-light

Out front a telephone pole leans
into lost voices

They painted this porch ceiling
to look like sky
but now the pale
blue is peeling free

The bees were never fooled

Someone missed the corners
Left cloud Left cloud