Because of the way the tree of the night rests
on your shoulders.  I built you a crown of golden
hatchets.  You left it holding the door open;
you said you tried but it was too quiet when
the leaves didn’t crinkle like spiders.  And
breathing was the only disaster to run
roughshod through the room. Besides
where would the moon rest? I built you a
lattice of beetle backs in the throes of
flight, but the small chitinous flowers made
you sad with their promises. I scooped you up,
cradled all night in the ocean of my arms.
What holds an ocean but the bowl of the sky?
You were the island I clung to, marooned in this
purpose every. Somethings settle too hard,
the first raindrops like hammers, the dawn’s
knife at my heart.

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