When I remember slips
and pauses, down often. What, love? Ghosts? Palms to face, hold the baby bird | my heart one old one new my
father’s smile and the waves | laughter I hold pure and threatening.
A heart is full, dark cry knifed in the throat crawling, the bark of trees I cannot stop putting a palm upon, there a suspicion of beauty is kept. A person can become inevitable-
fresh snow, long arms I hold them around the powder cold.