I.I used to confuse coffee groundswith the dirt in flower pots,

the earthy scent overtakingthe musky flowers.

A bird nest lies on a shelf in our garage.I do not have the heart

to close our garage door at night,to move the nest:

the blue eggs unhatched,cushioned in the leaves—

unable to escapetheir home.

II.More pressure, my teacher says.I tilt my index finger,

clasping the bowskimming the strings of my violin.

The amountthe bow hair should bounceingrained in muscle memory.

Increase the bow speed.I findthe fine line

between a gritty soundand the tip of my bow flyingoff the strings.

The rosin puffing gold dustonto my music sheets,

onto the black lines, the swirlsof the clefs and key signatures,

the stickinessfinding homes in crevices

made by the screwsin my music stand.

III.I trace the patternsof rock on my shower wall

I once believedtold my life’s story.

I saw my cat, grey stripescurled in a ball,

pressedinto the tiled wall.

Arbitrary like a raffle,fate carves into the rock

with the right setof sharp tools.

IV.When I was six,I dreamt of a crimson path.

Barefoot, I walked on eggs—red, runny yolks.

The eggshells poking my feet,the path has no end.