more beautiful than the next.
Let the droning of the bulls on the moon decide for me
where no conversation served
to survive and farm the desert.
And these mountains you spoke of,
how the soul is the last day
you play for me the guitar
with its six paths over the abyss.
Having lost you everything returns rumored into being
like the truth, nuggets of rain moused down to the river
as if there were a reckoning.
The blossoms have made me last here. Body of winter flowering,
I come back to you as
milk streak by beneath the moon,
as the tenderness of your not having to
see me this way, with my glass over time.
If
I ask
who's holding the sky, when will you replace it?
If
light fall,
let the great unrestrained asterisks
wake you. I waited until the night before, believe me,
as long as I possibly could,
and in time approached dignity,
a large music to grasp but with my eyes
since you are gone and these are not our stars.
I keep like pressed leaves
my hands over my heart when the water starts
sleeping in and out of time behind that
closed door, the door already closed
when I get up to go.
And these gold pieces flying off me- autumn
I spend returning what's not mine,
the yellow bird, columbine,
raven, black yellow black yellow bees, wasps,
evergreens.
Trumpet flowers like us trying out old flutes
long ago, eager and dumb .
Be comforted you are clear, my foreigner,
