A northern branch – rough handled – right
for curving the animal from me.
In winter she opens: one white flower.
Sticks lie flat across branches; raft
on the fall of tree. One stick still burns
a green flame, like a question
or a falling child – testing the sharp
Ghosts stay in the cut wood. I play
with the obedient ghosts, and never
wonder about the other child
who left so quietly
I take it in like apples, breaking
the falling silence with the snap of hunger.
The wild has entered and planted fence stone
full with native weed-fruit; the patience of seeds
is water carrying time into the rock. This field
is slipping dream toward the river – nature
deciding itself (before un-nature
is carried into life – sad monster
sewn to the wrong soil
gabbling a mixed patois).
Bulbs speak their tongues in
flower – promises of life
in impossible places – the fall
of living at the end of the
We lie the blanket where the ground slopes
west. It’s stars we want: they hang in the old
tree their small cold fire. We offer up apples
to the taking stars. Our talk tastes
better that way; it’s measured and means
This second skin is tight with friendship
in the hollow of words
first tested – rashly bearing
what we don’t know
as wild turns on inside us,
kids. She’s alone, breaking flowers
when the deer startles
in the dark – animal – white eyes
hot above a heart.
Misplaced, they both live briefly
until the bell of breaking glass