my natal fear is that
of being prised apart
with the economy of wind
against october leaves.
when she departs
the bedroom
my hands occupy
themselves with the salt
of her gone flesh;
while in the forest, at night,
trees are made recumbent
following the swift
ejaculation of windy-ice.
the moss and earth,
exposed at her felling,
are flipped up and fanning;
this alluvial, dark spread
confronts the fool
whose curiosity after
the storm took him
to...
what giving creature is this
something like a whispered song
mere touch
her meaning is like the texture of the perfect
my mother has escaped love
that love is no mere enthusiasm
savannah
how comes the muse to the latched-upon artist
swing
she wears galaxies of memorabilia