long arms

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.

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