Yesterday, when I was a boy,
a grey-legged heron fished the wharf
streaming Rachmaninov in F major
flat they were, those golden gifts, although

The sandpaper lick of meadow grass
sheds a prickly cascade
as we brush along cloven paths.
Blueprints that boot-heels cross…

Barely an octave in,
Torn between two signatures
and more familiar, already,
with closed containment.

For a man in a concentration camp
Any move is the wrong move,
Twisting tightens the bonds
and strangles flesh.