The tree holds / the storm. Ghost we / planted. Birch in the yard / while we sleep. There are songs about songs / & prayers that make no sense / except in rhythm. An interior monologue all about the artfully planned / neighborhoods of Japanese maples / like bruises / that can’t remember their causes. / Silence presides. / Out of no clouds / the rain comes to say / no one is not / in love. It’s a storm, / that’s all. Dark has always / been the case in most places. / Out of this horizon we sing / at each / other / in rusted words. / No . / Near / each / other in wasted urge.