Elizabeth Willis


I is to they
as river is to barge
as convert to picket line
sinker to steamer.
The sun
belongs to I
once, for an instant.
The window belongs
to you, leaning
on the afternoon.
They are to you
as the suffocating disappointment
of the mall
is to the magic rustle
of the word “come.”
Turn left toward
the mountain.
Go straight until
you see the boat
in the driveway.
A little warmer, a little
stickier, a little more
like spring.