Harp notes, like glass beads, string themselves
on the eleven invisible threads of this day.
Rain keeps saying November, late November.
My feet talk to each other in that language of nearly identical twins.
Pomegranate seeds chime notes: variations, gold,
a kernel of light inside each one. As the temperature drops,
garden lettuce ruffles another version of the story to the rocket arugula,
curling its r’s and reminding me of my great grandmother.
The one from Oviedo, the one I never met.
The box keeps closing. It’s trying to hide inside itself.
I think it’s raining inside the box.