There’s this cathedral in my head I keep making from cricket song and dying but rogue-in-spirit, still, bamboo. Not making. I keep imagining it, as if that were the same
Of birdsongs, I know only three for certain: cardinal, blue jay, raven, though perhaps the last two don’t count—not as song. More call than song. More cry, by which I mean
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.
The dragonflies are only the first thing. How they’re
not what you think, or thought you would. Couldn’t this,
too, be rescue? And then how, eventually, you start
forgetting to ask. The air hangs heavy with the smell
of catalpa trees
at last [...]
For the longest time, he said nothing. I looked
through the glass at what he was looking at: brindled
dog shaking the rain free of herself in a field of flowers,
making the colors stir where, before, there’d been
a stillness like what precedes [...]
Now uselessness casts its shadowy ligature
across If only. Now—never mind how
briefly—conquest almost seems not to have,
from the start, been the only color,
each defeat
a stepping-stone across a stream whose
name, maybe, should have matter [...]
With an ease considerably past what even we’d expected, the brush took fire. The birds unhid themselves, flew abruptly elsewhere, like shame when, from the wrong end of a foundering argument, it at last lets go. Is it risk, for example, if what get [...]
I mean after the lashing. After the welts that the lash gave rise to have healed so beautifully, we forget where they were. Here, we say, pointing vaguely, as toward a bird that could as easily be a sparrow hawk, any other falcon—as if it made no r [...]
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