I know, I know. It arrives always & suddenly
through the ochre hours of rising
& washing, shadow in the doorway,
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.