every bit of you that is lovely and tender
will go into the fashioning of finite things
Out there among the frozen
rose hips near the duck pond,
you’ve been out there too long,
Open Field. It is nothing but
horizons for you. And, too, the
reluctant first step that will
likely get you killed.
From a distance you thought the
birch leaves were wafers of light while
you dug for something you recognized
in the rubble of someone else’s life. That
perfectly wrought moment at 3:17, a ping
from a dead star or a submarine ping.
Echo back, Radio Transmission. The
desire is still out there somewhere
but the body is fading around it.
Bruised Thigh, it’s a head cold
and an icy drive in. Pay attention.
It seems all you ever think about are
the clothes you were wearing when you
figured it out, when you realized, at last,
it was make believe.The thumb in the arch
of your foot, the sinewy skitter up the leg, the
approximate ratio of sighs to fingers on flesh
following the dream in which your mother can
see again and she’s wearing an emerald dress.