I know you’ve seen this all along.
This has nothing to do with the way the earth gathers
beneath fingernails. You’ve been watching
the rattling words mounting in the distance,
listening to the crisp hollow sound that doubt makes
inside a canyon like birdseed scattered on
the pavement around a doomed bride and groom.
The trail narrows and I search for stanzas where
this winter tousles my hair and we stop together, stand oak-still
in the frail moonlight. I recognize this place like my own
hand or a kiss from my lover. Who has not found it
unacceptable to live a moment longer? The ground
has a softness to it, not mud, but a gentle give.
You know I long to be lupine, wild, and I hold
you like a ritual of the body, like bathing, the blue question
opening like the mouth of a cave ahead. We are still
here, holding the icy canyon walls in the dark, navigating
the rocky crevasses, as if it mattered.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 1.
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