Mary Cresswell

M a r y  C r e s s w e l l

next

Fingerprints

The geography of night

lives in my fingertips—

the comet’s loop as it

begins its return trip

to God knows where—

the arch of the Milky Way

when there is no moon

to compete—the ridges

of sound outlining

summer night in the city—

the whorls of spiral shells

living in seas too deep to try

this or any other night.