As if soil was noise, the legal notice
shivered on the barrow. Louise tore off
her scything gloves. High on a pine, wild
parakeets, harbingers of change
in our climate, stared from their margin, chattered
about apocalypse. Carefully, eking
out a holiday, I watered plants.
That's my dialect of territory
against the elocution of possession.
I looked for so long at Louise's face,
that, in the bedroom mirror, it smoothed mine.