You are the Forest

I am lost in the forest.
There is no forest.
This will tell you something

of the birds,
drawing in the sky
like comets.

The earth has lost
another me. The sparrows
are the seeds,

My palm, the feather
in your hair, the lashes
fluttering

are the last things
I see.

This is

This Is

the grey sky
pressing windows
with exclamations of birds,
the strength
of the free,
their loose hold.
I think
of you escaping
the storm, me
unremembering
as much as I loved you,
so you
become another,
this her, that she,
this wind,
the
birds
forgetting they
are not meant to break
through glass
made with
the blink of an eye
which sees
what isn’t, then
for a second,
is.

ok

Ok,

love,
here I am,
so that you
will not
find me
missing
among the
missed
words,
explanations
for each
breath, each
other –

and yet
know
there is
still
beauty, that
you
will not
feel it, my
hand
in the breeze
of your hair,
the way
perhaps
you
feel
it.

november 3

november 3

No stars, geese low, traveling south.

You feel that your body in darkness is
another life.
It rubs lightly past the faint window
of your room, an image, still,
skimming water between morning
and the southerly transmigration of dreams.
Closing the glass, it whistles a thought,
sleepily, but you,
your lips rest, and hum another thing.
You think of birds.

Leaves

One feels nothing
when the first days of November
arrive to fill in the wind-scoured constellations of geese
or to carry away
the sour mounds of apricot,
October peeled away.
One wonders,
where do the deer sleep here,
in November,
wake, cut away
under the grey trance of sky
when the blind car unzips its haste down
the threadbare road revealing
crops of still life too ingrown for
decay and that crisscross beneath
the unspoken snow,
yet to make landfall.

Coming in from the Rain

Rumination is made with a bell,
landing in me. Drizzle scarves
the shoulders. Dampness is not the opposite
of dust. Movement sticks to its illusion,
she said one night into the sound
of my name in her body. There are only steps, she said,
against the banks of things.
I make it back inside.
Shoes squelch the marble floor,
then plunge the hall. I move into the pulse of it,
up the dead river’s flow.
I can feel your heart in me, she said.