Loss of names is a kind of leakage
but there is another: the actual scale

She dallies now in plots
but feels a longing for dispersal

Thunder blooms unevenly in unknowable places,
breaking distances into startling new chambers

She is lovely, Victorian, her auburn hair, upswept,
held by tortoise-shell pins and silver combs;

From where I stood on the bridge
I could see the moon, flapping on water, unable to escape.