the way
the occupied house across the street
never lights up
the way snow falls so slowly
the way the drumset sits unbuilt
like infant cells before instructions
the way the fake diamond
always rolls inward, never showing
the way we don't know of trees
that die during our lifetimes
the way one fifth of a plant lives on
the way the dog follows me everywhere
the way apologies break in my hands
The way memory can't be be tamed
with an icepick.
The way mountains are blue, grey green
and aren't really
the way I love you if you just
don't touch me.
resolution.
Poems by Julie Kim Shavin
Photograph by Zsuzsanna Kilian