Time, that verdigrises

the coppery mouth of the world, 

remember not me, but my mother.

Her face with the wind

drifting across it, her palms

etched & crosshatched

like a Durer lithograph

of a bunny we saw once together

in the Metropolitan Museum, 

a like light-jacketed day 

I can never have again.  

Time, that makes cyanotypes

impossible at evening, help me

refrain from mourning the living. 

Give me a boat, curved

and seaworthy, make it the exact

shape and smell

of my mother's hands.