In each bottle of nail polish a ghost / sets all the prayers in the house to glint.
In Breton, they say
/ there’s a word that weaves between
/ green and blue, allowing for
/ haze, precipitation,
/ the burr of distance,
/ the welcome…
He went directly and unhurried and scanned the smattering.
/ Wingbit snagskin throatlap furthew clawlid eyespit oarfire.
/ Oarfire? No, that’s just dreams talking.