We feel lost—
ever more confounded
each time the turn arrives,
when winters drive summers off
and autumns are missing.
cherry bombs, your approaching sneakers.
High Mass, your retreating shoes.
she jumped off the roof.
twice.
no bruise, no scratch
the taste of dirt.
People who had believed in the color green,
the gorge falls behind atomic tedium
expelling long afternoon over this fraction
through all dark blast flash not happening,
the planetary crux in the crucible of kindness,
through thumping chest-swims breath knows
the beginning of, something like a dissolved room
where a white door frame empties into a pasture
A barn collapses and fills again with wind
and light over the little ant. It’s like breathing,
the scarab beetle scrambling along an edge.
And God must be riding a horse made of wild energy.
And that horse probably eats grass out there
at the far reaches behind the black mask of the rainstorm,