i would rise to you    crows and black vultures

and lie on the shores of your air, if i could

i want tides to wade through me until i am the frail and unfinished poet

i want to write down the flaws of the sycamore

who is it i hear crying in the silence of strange bodies

who is it i hear weeping in the places you have been

there is a shadow across the vision i was close to once

when the horizon between worlds had been crossed