wordless, a rush. the day

unceasing as bone 

beneath cleaver. slant-shard 

of light through grass

at eleven. & round 

the clock we run & run.

brittle yellow blades

grate our knees. flies swarm

near eyelid & cheek. we paw

the wind, we bat them left.

feral cats hunt in the dust.

the soft lisp, the roll, the quick—

I have been sliced bare

by summer’s love. I sink 

hip-deep in thicket. 

sun bleaches the valley, 

a sweet mumbled prayer. 

we plait wilderness into our hair.

birdsong branched 

behind downy, talon-pricked ear. 

a tremble of eggs

balanced on matted nests 

of sludge & leaf. we seal 

each silken gap. on unpaved roads 

our footsteps grow, 

leave tangled vines 

behind us. we move

deliberately—with ease.

how the language tempts. 

its diaphragm of howling bees. 

our secrets are not ours to share—

& there is never enough time anyway

to compass all our mountain maps. 

the raise & bloom & fade. 

we add the shade when winter 

breaks. the textured grey 

summerstorm clouds

linger perpetually 

in my mother’s 

stone-cracked feet.

I will trace them in my sleep.

demons of piecemeal mythology.

how their shape tortures me.

in summer we rest uneasily.

we thrill in long grass,

float with wicked electricity

in ice-knifed ponds. 

sky passing by, sunlight at night.

in the wetland heath 

we have buried

our gods. 

we visit them with offerings.

one small spotted egg.

three golden glass beads.

fingernail clippings arranged 

as a fleet. one olive-

green button unsewn 

from your coat. 

the shorn wing we found 

in the road,

feathers intact,

meat picked to marrowbone. 

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