Brent Goodman
Wintermint: the breeze in her mouth
opened a window I climbed through,
she going into journalism
or basketball, me small enough
to pick a lock or throw
a sparrow's whistle
into the nearby lilacs.
So she carried me around
like a lozenge, how a porch light
dulls through steamed glass,
her tongue the sky above
someone else's empty yard,
the whole world a breath in
or exhaled, rain moving
all the tiny things around.