Felt through my hair for the missing comb. Kept counting three, knew
there were four. The blind side feels for itself.


We found ourselves getting closer to it.

What we wanted, we took, and then we looked at each other,
not knowing how to go on from there,
that little eminence, promontory with its views of river
turning ice.

Is there—you’d know this—a word for a new sentence in the world,
a sentence that, given the language, you could see coming,

but you never saw coming before.

You see that tower? That’s in another country.

When, early on, you knew you could break it, you really should have.

Find a way through. I’m trying to show you.




Release the opening,
then the yawn gave onto a further ravishing,
then vanishing honey (rumors of bees) then this storm.


She gives up her beauty gladly. Did we find what we were looking for?
Did they come back.

To some hinted extent. Hunt it. Then heart, take heart

this is all mystical & meaningless

For example: you lead your sheep to graze on clover because you know
it sweetens the milk that makes the cheese.




Could have made something warm or haloed by now.

“My grandma died so my paper’s late”
well I’ve had better weekends, luv—

moss welding my hip to the bed,
web sealing my lips’ hush.

Unimportant sacrifice.
Yes to all this

loss: yes you’ve had time to
clutch at cold breaking
through your thin dress of flesh.



Let me tell you
Let it tell me through you

Do something right for a change

leaving you for dead—but here comes
the little one again with a wood sorrel offering.

Sky. Or say nothing corresponds

like stacked bolts of flood-stained silk—
I try to prove how your riot grew.

Forget it: you must tell your own truth.

Spirit, I crave a goodbye, you
deserve a change in weather.