Cloud Hands

A woman moves through a Cloud Hands position,                            holding and rotating

an invisible globe—thud, shattering glass, moan,                            horn blast—so many

worlds to this world—two men dipnet                            sockeye salmon

at the mouth of a river—from a rooftop, a seagull                            cries and cries;

a woman moves through Grasp the Bird’s Tail—                            someone on a stretcher

is wheeled past glass doors—a desert fivespot                            rises in a wash—

and, pressing her tongue to the roof                            of her mouth,

she focuses, in the near distance, on the music                            of sycamore leaves.