I’ve been watching
the snow, pressed
the pages of a forest,
brush the light from
a dark bird
My eyes turn silver,
that’s the degree
my eyes wish
to be green.
We have a deal.
They tell me
where they’ve gone
when I am here,
I lie to them, understand? They
“Night, love is
“Yes, love,” it says back,
Say, I love you, in darkness,
and it will mean something different.
Wonder: is awe the spark of friction,
emptiness on flesh?
Ask, how true this is: the heart’s the sting
the atmosphere of the soul.
Then remember, fireflies float
I am looking for something new.
I stare at my books. I am looking out the window.
I would like to say, Junebugs are speaking
to the stars, though that barely means
what I want it to.
Lately, I’ve been so calm, you say.
And I realize you are looking out a window
at me, looking for something old,
something the stars sang with.