We had to decide how to dress, weighing in the balance the searing heat and

politeness to our hosts. Some chose to pack light, go bare-armed, risking the

glares of the sun and old women. Others trawled the high street, fingering

linen—the obvious choice—to mark us as another kind of Englishwoman:

those who remain pale beneath ivory, khaki, and sepia sheaths, our skin creased

like out-of-date maps to an oasis we could never reach on our own.

a blue field—

wind wrinkled

sky-clad

Retting the histories of borders drawn with a ruler, canals and peninsulas

seized, villages winnowed and shtetls heckled, blankets infected, tongues

uprooted, generations threshed—we reap the bitter dew of voices wrung

from outlawed clouds.

a rusted key—

a lace handkerchief

left on a line

MINOR KEY/HOLE

Mine

the moon?

O no, I moan

the moon over

meaning miners

mainline moondust

lithium regalith

helium-3 domain

naming

irradiated dreams

unlimited

lift-off

no one leaves

only footprints

in the light

we name

dark and drill

into as if

it is hiding

our future

from us

a lost key

turning

in the

finite night

invisible

to the

stripped eye

moneyed moon

mine not

to wander

why