On This Night of Our Choosing

On this day of our choice

we have collected

at forests like

some insect


beetling their way

to the heart of

the copse. We have

coalesced for

the moment as

dewdrops do

bivouac in the

abdomen of leaves

pooling tensility

against atomizing

sun or its reflection

sprung from mica

pieces studding

the sharp loam.

The tenderfooted

will wince

the shod shall

advance this day

of our choice when

we pass separate

through the wood

to track in packs

paths whose blaze

is merely what

we toss ahead.

All hopes into

mouths of our

beer cans are fed

crumpled jettisoned

and come upon

twenty yards

down the trail

as though left

to augur for

us there. But

no other has

before stood

here with legs

spread open as

a pair of shears

pin-stuck in the

soil like sign

of a miracle.

Here the trees

are deplumed

limbs mangled

and gray like

stone jali hiding

others gone other

ways this day

of our choosing

foreshortened to

evening already.

No two paths

cross and were

they to they

might as wires

sparking this

night of our

choosing to fire

but uncovering

a charcoal plain

across which we

might see one

another again.