I shout Rilke's song as I circle
the mountain, words to bloom among
dead
leaves lining the slopes that ebb
and rise, among granite monoliths
surfaced

from the earth like whales frozen
in mid-glide. Storm-blown trees
careen

at odd angles, trees you would have cut,
stacked on the stone hearth that now
echoes

my emptiness, dark yawn sucking sleep
up the chimney's stone well, leaving
memory

to permeate rooms where I move
as if underwater, you a skim of light
darting

at the edge of my vision. Driven outdoors
I chant, stamp numbly toward nothing, each
word

a breath blossoming on cold air. Calmed,
I gather quartz refracting light,
blank

rock to border the rose garden we planted
last spring, roses that loosened,
spilled

on your bedside table. Now you are
no-one's sleep, cold white
root
encased in satin, you sail the underground
wave, stitched eyelids silk
petals.