—for Andi

The site has been selected, so they dig,
to break in soft and untouched grass. So draw
the plan. Then draw again. You lay your wrist,
poor broken wrist near mine, so red, and all
among my pens and paper you—stopping—
glance over metaphors and images
to find that all my iambs were blocking
your compass. Circles erase blemishes;
lend more, more of your protracted scratches
to build a roof. Not build, exactly. To
pitch for us some meaning, and me thatched. It’s
for you, the desk, the translucent bright blue
paper. I use mine to make a bandage
for your wrist; you yours to draw the landing.