because of Mary Oliver

the geese have moved farther south
always returning home.
their calls no longer fill the
spring air, the lonesome
here we are
here we are
here we go

herald of wind that fills
this desert with
seeds of life and water from other places. leaving
to leave this place dry again.

my heart is migratory, a stray cat
returning some nights.
a warm rhythm filling me
with spring.
flying again



.

convection

the white cold of my fingers
fold into a cup to hold
the last heat of my blood.
blowing ghosts into the void
of paper bone arches.

the empty chill of morning
steals easily from slow capillaries.
the transmission of loss





.

rest

bring me your shattered fingers
trembling with dreams.
rest them in mine while
there is strength enough
to temp broken glass

briefly

the knife is the metaphor, the blood is the story, the last breath is fogetting