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