The hickories bear witness
to the light which bears witness to disease:
inching of blisters
across yellow-tipped leaves, branches
desolate after morning fall–
which is all, really, to say,
every day in your absence,
I take less comfort in the growth of living things.
I tried knowing my neighbors more openly,
for in your coldness about life,
my clay legs learned
to walk the earth’s beaches
where the stones didn’t cut.
They pressed against the ends of my body knowingly–
I shook off December naturally.
I learned a variation of spring so well
that when I came across a fox, slim and skulking
along the highway, its mouth opened unto me
to seek green shelter and milk and a bit of daylight–
its best season thieved.
I was, you see, on the verge of peace,
and everyone felt it in me–
could drink it from me.
I didn’t mind. I liked to feel useful.
The world was mine to give.
No, it wasn’t. I reach for the soreness
in the closed off bud– continue
to fall in love with all I cannot save.
