Wish You Were Here

Where the seedling body, wearing a smock or a backwards old

dress shirt, makes a map: two wells of colour in an egg carton,

glossed paper, thick-handled brush. Start with a burst

of solar egg, streak with sea. That clotted bloom of overlap, beheld

—duckweed, algae, moss—paint’s a skin and then it’s a sinking dream

for the gaze. Verdant island blotting at the shores,

and the grass is nowhere greener, nowhere is it greener than this place.