A northern branch – rough handled – right

for curving the animal from me.

In winter she opens: one white flower.


Sticks lie flat across branches; raft

on the fall of tree. One stick still burns


a green flame, like a question

or a falling child – testing the sharp

edge, death.


Ghosts stay in the cut wood. I play

with the obedient ghosts, and never


wonder about the other child

who left so quietly

this home-made.


I take it in like apples, breaking

the falling silence with the snap of hunger.



The wild has entered and planted fence stone

full with native weed-fruit; the patience of seeds


is water carrying time into the rock. This field

is slipping dream toward the river – nature


deciding itself (before un-nature

is carried into life – sad monster


sewn to the wrong soil

gabbling a mixed patois).


Bulbs speak their tongues in

flower – promises of life


in impossible places – the fall

of living at the end of the




We lie the blanket where the ground slopes

west. It’s stars we want: they hang in the old


tree their small cold fire. We offer up apples

to the taking stars. Our talk tastes


better that way; it’s measured and means



This second skin is tight with friendship

in the hollow of words


first tested – rashly bearing

what we don’t know

as wild turns on inside us,


kids. She’s alone, breaking flowers

when the deer startles


in the dark – animal – white eyes

hot above a heart.


Misplaced, they both live briefly

until the bell of breaking glass


recalls her