Published in
The Door Is A Jar |
the smallest color
"Show me the lines of your hand. From where have you come? Are you sure you are not dead? " — Ilse Jeurgensen in spring the conspiracy of seed and rain renews above it they scale a gneiss face to escape an empty bed these hands know this chunk of mountain as intimately as a thousand lovers' skin climbing last loves, last all niters, hugging the rough slab in spring the conversation of wind and leaves resumes they’ve found someone other than the one once sought letters cease — thaw to lost rememberings there’s a last time for everything though we seldom know it then in spring you'll love another (everywhere others will love others) in the breeze of entangling nights, in the brisk afterbirth of dawning, in plainness of light and heat such hope born of hope blooms or not without it, how do you live? in green and softening earth in new life and mute shale in spring |