Beauty Lake Rd.

All afternoon
and near night
this deer
inside me
scenting for
its place
to die and lay
deer, this
we search
the sky
for it, or
the light
of each place,
to enter earth
’til finally
we see,
our tracks
to take us
there, the bird
that turns
air into

Lake Huron

I choose love. It was simple;
light arrived on the river;
branches opened out before me.
It was easy. I followed them. It was faith.
There was an angel, the kind
echoing the birds we hear too close
to earth to see, who are fists of creeks,
hymnals bodies cannot open.

The divine is the apple in the hand;
love is the body of the worm inside.
Love is a bullet in the brain.
And, hope is the body that bleeds,
using up the end of time to end its reach.
It is lightness bearing every weight.

And, here am I, a body and supposedly a soul
on Lake Huron, an emptiness filling with rain,
ferns kneeling at my knees, and fingers making
no distinction between holding and releasing
the decay that still, for no reason at all, sings out
into the ordinary.