Up at the Knolls Clarissa trims the blueberries,
lets the crab apple go. It says crap on the menu,
a typo though typewriters are few. Art shakes
her walls. A storm whirl-a-gigs the horizon.
Turn that thing off, she instructs, as waves of air
try to push her aside. As an instructor she knows
it’s not who is first off the ferry but first to decipher
the shadows leaving footprints on her roof.
She craves kelp, or is it help as she tries to hold up
her end of the conversation always wondering
if it’s the wrong end, if her urge for silence
is connected to her urge for rushing traffic,
for knowing why Goldilocks was so hungry
in the first place that she chose the lives of bears.