It began as little ponds: 

they reflected in contained ways.

The grass at my feet

 

became algae as I inched closer.

I saw something more than a portrait of fowl feathers and mud.

 

My father was a chef at an Italian restaurant.

The artisan bread, hard-roofed with clouds on the inside, 

was my favorite part because I could carve 

 

the fluff out with my hands

like it meant something to ravage a beautiful thing.

 

I would stick my index finger in a pool of

cracked black pepper, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, 

swirl it into an eye. 

 

Those specks made a dappled thing.

 

Now I dip my finger into paper.

 

Headlights streak the sky.

The geese migrate in these dark spaces,

slathering themselves on wet, 

 

oily placards of pond-film.

 

They hover with mossy clouds like 

gossamer silhouettes,

uncontained.