What cinch.
I know, I know. It arrives always & suddenly

through the ochre hours of rising
& washing, shadow in the doorway,

a telegram,
a softly wilting thing to staple

behind the honey cabinet unread,
no news being better

than good news, way out here
where the urge to stockpile

is understandable. Where weathers
heave & flatten.

These superstitions. This boiling
water from the stove,

enough for one bowl of orange root
& fennel. As if it is ever enough

to offer tea & burn
the lantern. As if any unbidden guest

leaves easy.       Yes. Nothing

than the body’s smallest failure.
And in the throat a forest.

Boreal climate of sorrowing.
White gown & room. Metallic & shiver.

In the end, an occasion to feel your heart
inside your arm & beating.

Needle & skin: echo line of trees,
four sunsets’ distance from the clearing.