The city map has sharp edges, and I live
within barely visible lines. The lake I see
is not mine, nor do I own the flotilla of
geese that once wintered there.

Carp rise to snap at insects
whose names mean nothing
to geese or king snakes, or the eagle 
who knows its boundaries as it hunts.

From my window the view lies
flat as the glass I look through,
pulling back to notice how sunlight
hits the panes, interrupts the frame
of not knowing this place
as I might a beloved body, never
testing the surety of bone and tendon.