A Hawthorn, Rooted Close to Other Guests

This is not



nature—the way



pain interrupts



its answers, ashen



 



awl-tipped



limbs waving



and brushing them-



selves, chill crushes



 



carried across



the ravine; and



a wing of



their broken flutter,



 



that desiccated



battle-din, is



hooked by a frosty



steam, and it balds.



 



Though the awls are



hollow-point—the un-



graspable locusts



having left



 



behind veins of shadowy



larvae inside them.



And the hollowed-out



scent of cold rain. And



 



suddenly—a corridor



of ropy light



twines round



the stems and



 



fills those absent



bodies with steamy



voices they cannot



share, cannot



 



reveal, retaining



a skin that shields



unerringly—And so



the sudden remains



 



only as an answer



the stilled silk



flowers



prod-up to reach



 



on this dog’s grave



(what symmetry



can gather itself



entire, in the



 



open air?)—a calm



tended to by



the wrinkled spines of



shucked chestnuts.



 



I would invoke



the radiance of the mirror



uncovering itself



inside the glistering



 



jetsam-spread of leaves, or



the receding waves of



these flowers, fathering



the dusk into them.