More dark than gray, but not yet quite dark
entirely, the stories keep ending as if there were
a limit to what any story could hold onto, and this
the limit, the latest version of it, looking a lot like the sea
meeting shore.
*
To constellate, the way desire
does, sometimes, with fear, or anger—both, occasionally—
and there’s been gentleness, too, I’m here, I’ve
always been here…
*
Maybe between mystery
and what little we can say for sure
happened, lies a secret even
memory itself keeps somewhere
hidden because for now
it has to.
*
Less like wishing too late, I mean,
for a thing to be otherwise than like fire closing in
so absolutely, it can almost seem intimacy
had yet to be invented, and here’s the fire,
inventing it: Constellate,
with me—
*
Look at the field,
studded with the blue-black eyes of broken heroes.
One of the eyes is moving. It can still see. What does it see?