between stone and star i have learned slowly    how on one black wing we spin

in the ear of the cry between sycamore and moon    i open all my windows

my blood is your milk filled with night

those who say there is no one to see    is where every living thing has gone

in a field full of light and death    it grows hard to see the one who will come

winter stars slip into us one by one    the skies of our vanishing grow large

within the rose who never tires    my heart gives birth to many hands

the dying sun stares into my sky as if awakening is near

a small horse leans
into her juniper tree—
no other life but sky

because i also cling to birth
this december sun
is warming

the little river is watching

            and crows that stitch the morning sky

                        and those who have died    but had eyes

dreams that visit when we are most awake :: the snow i bury underground

piece by piece    like the wood i split    to feed flames that are going blind

the inner space of snow is vast and skin—do i hear our yearnings agree?

the eye that always watches you is everywhere i dream

orchid bud swells inside

so many suns crowding the exit

i give birth to a sky that refuses to curve

what i want to say drew

its last breath—

            beheld became what can’t be changed

cut limbs falling

upon awakened ground—

            the silence that follows called wound