SERIES IN RELIEF
And, until now, I had collected everything I needed. Though nothing in its entirety, which is always true.
But from you, the old wants resurface, like a face rubbed into glass by an open palm.
Like the disturbance of stiff shirts in a closet. Knocking shoulders, they become more familiar.
As when the ritual-machine of a flower repeats itself obsessively.
All these times I've left a hollow locust shell on the table and forgotten it—I want to say thank you, but never turn around in time.
Cover a ghost with a sheet and it becomes you. What does silence want? The gray bird panicking my throat.
The night makes a dragon the size of two hands and drags you back from the present. There was a war with no one in it.
And nothing vacillates. Nothing of interest. Must I supply the bright shadow?
To have symmetry, you must believe sadness. You must remember what follows caution, what body will appear in the field at dawn.
Like someone who says: build a horse. And I do.