pulse

dull patter, a crux
backlight, raisin-like
buds on a blooming
tree, its fruits already
coming into their own,
rosemary peaking
from its spent
stalks like sweet dew,
paint off of the porch,
slats coming loose, a
few I picked like
sticks in the yard to
stow away, in the
garage, the man
door ajar, every
morning I open
and view an
impossible vista
the space between
like toe gaps, arm
spans, the pulse
a chatter of
shapes without
permit, edges
to let out
the light