"PS: all along it was me"
Ana Boičević

PS: all along it was me.

From noise of dust motes                        rice grains pink with pesticide, pre-furniture—


gentle fistface, walk


into the shadow of the barn. How light + impatient you dried my

kid-hair by the tree-stump oven. I warmed your bearskin

while you upped the linden dust from between the floorboards.


And re: happy-sad, happy-sad—how did you know

this grasshopper would be bigger than the valley?

And if the cow eats clover and blows up its guts

how big a bang is that? Not to these shores,


blanket for star-watching. Here, some several hundred blue



are rained on


in the quadrangle

of tall rust-colored projects. These objects need you,

and in needing you, they need me too:


the overgrown stuff’s all me, the gibberish and the slop.


+ dust.

To flying lay another grain on top of that pile is freedom.