print previewback LEAH POOLE OSOWSKI
Requiem
Simmer down. The freezer is doing its good work. The ocean,
a degree higher than yesterday and in that one
your ankle bones can rest.
Estuaries in labor, the birds, white with angular wings
missile on a dime. Jets above the cirrus thrum their numbing.
Your own acute awareness of surface area, corralling sun.
Still as a sinker. Slack line to taut.
Sliding glass doors you feel in your gut.
Some hard beckon. Like water after hours of none.
Your ice project, trays to empty and refill.
Your own private igloo.
In miniature. In relief. Against the back of the neck.
After the dock and sparklers, after they burned all the way
past where you held them, left a scar, some cartography of then,
some, this is the way you turn and turn and keep your inner ear.
Some sanctum.
Aloe and hassocks. The light on lull. Ultimately,
you were my every thought.
Like pre-storm knees. The smolder of nine o’clock high June.
Her tendency towards leaving. 
Inconclusive
Requiem