Laundry dries
on the line
at the new house

in the wind, taking
on stiff
sunlit shapes, that hold
some out of
doors
willfulness when
you bring them
down–

I know the
slow Sunday way of it
easing my trout
fat form into the early
lake, solitary
as I was before
hair, kelp-heavy,
lifting
in the olive
current–

eating
becomes new
the questions all
inward, personal, again–
dark kale and a
frying pepper, only
I still don’t have
the way of the single
serving
and see

how feeding us
has become
feeding me.