The  serrated grasses tickling your arches, you are ensconced
by the sun’s tumble  along the long spine of the world, you are methodically
walking, waking the  backwoods passages, paths of deliverance. The actor’s
devices molt, fall like  scales away from your hands, face, posture, as you
tell to the trees what we  tell priests and bartenders, tell the returned
dead. Spring teases your blood  like the brevity of Indian Summer,
the birds are a troubled witness to this  sympathetic magic, the light
chants like an island obeah. You are bearing the  blacksmith’s fire,
your lips are the lips of just-formed bells: everything is  a window.

When we’re alone in the darkness, and cannot see  each other, what will
we talk about? Your laugh, like a morphine drip; this is  my future,
you will intone: light weaned from shadow. The hardship of  loving
is scattered in equivalent drops, however mercurial. Imaginary  lines,
drawn between human cries as upon the ocean surface: how can  we
tell our transgressions? In the city, bombs drum the artifacts of  custom/
the teal pheasant starts up from an eave/ you hear the imaginary  noise
of your imaginary footprints. You can believe the timbre of stars  without
ambivalence, it is immortal as light carried away on an owl's  wings.