“the house we will not build” by Lorelei Bacht

all anchors abandoned. between asked 
     and answered: a bridge,      broken. 

calling for clouds, i trip on ceramic –
its discolored, sharp archaeology

spells difficult, spells deficit, evens out
every fall: what does, doesn't.      each

tree abandoned to its failing figs, its cut 
fingers. no hand to hold the hole now 

     bright. beneath the leaf a little loss
lingers, meaning more mouth, but 

miserable, and managing nothing.
it occupies the past, the pearls once piled, 

now poured without purpose. i'd rather 
reach reason. revoke the rib of its season.

     something else requires to stand 
and sail through this wildness, outgrown: 

all i want from life is a while that works.