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Passing within the doors
like eyelids open there,
the closet truths
we should not watch.
Grief seeps beneath
the doors like shutters
where the family weeps.
Within the photos
glimpse
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The moon floats high
above my bed where dusty
footprints write new direction
upon an ancient history,
suspended overlapping tracings,
bright reflected signposts to
an unreal imagined future;
and by
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Divorced from fissured heat,
within the boughs and beats
of corn fens’ stippled silks
(via foot from asphalt spills),
a scalloped spongy rut
forks twisted through the feld.
The leaves
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The sun’s elbows nudged
the moon’s fullface and songbirds
from the morning of your birth,
and wrapped the earth
with throated swells approving–
the dancing orangebeams
streaming bright promises
on
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The day with moonlight
rose beyond my touch,
and bade my memory
(so distant now)
to see another snowy space
within my mother’s eyes,
not thirty winters on.
My first
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