[Our bodies are full of veins and yet]

Our bodies are full of veins and yet
we do not ever notice. The trees that came
in a shower of red as we too felt
the ground pushing up against us
are now thrusting out and up and still
we are pumped down as something else
in us pushes to be out. A flock of birds
growing dark on a branch are knobs
of the tree, but softer, and when
they startle, all at once, is it because
something has flown up in our ribs
and cannot move any further.
The birds are always breaking and
re-gathering. They land on the same
tree again and again, and we cannot
even stop looking. Before the warmth
began to invade, I had already felt sleep
being pushed out, the thick comfort
of winter moving to make way for what,
that peculiar terror that comes, when,
having lived for years in a house not 
especially loved, someone wakes up
to each of the vases gone, and finds
herself instead in an orchard filled
with crabapple trees. What’s worse
is that the trees are beautiful.
How can anyone who passes by them,
singing, ignore them, those leaves
thrumming into green, arching for the red
buried in lips and palms, the color they cannot
have until they are dying, and when
your back grows with a cut I put
my mouth on it. You are only the flight
of blood in migration again and again
and when I touch you I cannot disappear.
It is not that we grow dimmer as night comes,
but that colors converge, and only then
do I know that there is nothing telling me
who you are—not the sharp trees behind us,
not the clearness of the bricks—with their colors, 
the way a boy passing by the river makes
shadow animals with his hands and doesn’t
even know where the light is coming from.
He moves his thumb to make the wolf bite,
then one creature breaks into two
and they are both dancing, and when
the boy goes home it’s not that he doesn’t
notice the light on the trees is suddenly
thicker but that he’s thinking of how
the sound of the river could help him pretend
to be underwater if only he closed his eyes,
and each of the lights taste like nothing
you or I have ever tasted. If only
the light could remember voices,
remember music pearling across leaves
and breaking in the center of a grove
of trees with bark inches rougher
than any grain of our flesh, would it be
as if we were there and again there,
would the boy singing with his hands
as he crosses the river at night know
that music could never bring her back, but
it can make them cry, and something
might remember us, the way the grooves
in the branches of the tree must
remember, over and again, the dip
under the weight of birds.