The wound in the birdsong from too much love,
The chatter of the thistles, in harmony with the melting of clouds,
And the broken branch, tiptoeing silently
into the womb of the mountain at dusk.
…
It’s cold in here, refrigerator buzzing, only on at times.
It’s in the cool dark, and there, and there, the meadows haze indefinably.
Before the couch was all spread out, we rendered: THIS LIGHT,
it was to sleep beneath the carillon, for me,
and you, a memory you never had.
Why must we shift through sifting and exclusive psalms to get to things that no one wants to see?
Why must we diet on our sacrifice, and turn our heads to smile at those of us who’d be reduced to waste?
When we reduce our worldliness to cause, governing, these bodies appear, wrapped in your sad,
grain-of-salt-wit smile.
And reduction is a travesty.
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