After Cecilia Llompart Beneath the billow a breeze spawns in the field. Among the mosquito’s preamble. Attendant to tree chatter, the snapped branch catching other branches on its fall. Threading the tire swing and the patched jacket knotted at the top. Outside and inside, like a fly discovers the open window, riffs off radio gossip: Call now if you believe in ghosts. After me—a coda. Prudent like a storm, like a child counts before the thunder: in the jar she holds a moth wished into cocoon.