There are too many beginnings & no point.
We could say the scarf was knit with one skein. Sooner or later, someone will unravel it just to know; just as well
we start with the big words.
But the peninsula stood unsurrendered, I wrote in eighth grade.
& She laid down her arms, in ninth.
A paraphrase, then: the man’s boat was a ’57 corvette.
We could have all the catheads to house our anchors
& all the lighthouses to match.
While the cities continue to flood.
Under the jacaranda, it is easiest to notice
something sudden & scrawled in a corner—
The baby the baby the baby the bay.