*
They’re still missing though this tree
waits here for its leaves
returning home as moonlight
where you count the waves
from a shore while some breeze
is learning to fly the way these dead
are now the stones side by side
in close formation still circling down
for the lost, the needed –you become
water, let these dead drink
from your arm, leaving it empty
abandoned, sifting the grass
for a field that’s not from a plane
not from the sun or falling behind
–that’s not wet, that’s the one.
*
It’s your usual County 481 though your eyes
can’t smell the straight line beginning to open
make possible the slow climbing turn ahead
–they still believe such a scent is the song
brought by a ship run aground for its sail
used, torn, can still be seen in the stretch
that has become your heart –on every side
licking the tar while your eyes
sniff for the lost the best they can.
*
Before this field blossomed
it was already scented
from fingers side by side
darkening the lines in your palm
the way glowing coals
once filled it with breasts
and everything nearby
was turned loose to warm the miles
the pebbles and stones brought back
pressed against her grave
–you heat the Earth with a blouse
that’s never leaving here.
