--streams widen from stone to stone
as if this floor still had a secret spot
and voices differ from one another
--you say the dry stones are innocent
the rest venomous, to listen for stones

for the thickening :each stream, you say
and turn toward my lips
--you lift my head as if some star
was falling, only once
and I had to know how it feels
to drown, to be a season
to wait for daylight, to wait
for evening and slowly turn.
 

*
 

And though this tar breaks open
it's not Spring --in the curb
a hubcap :soldier-songs

and cannons needed at the front
--you will lift this helmet, surprised
the eyes are still warm, the trees

single file, softer than snowshoes
and letters home --you will lift 
the roadway, traffic will stop

and snow muffle the small dent
half smoke, half fever, half echo
--it's hard to believe these trees

live by hearing, a mist
breaking into floes, into wings
and behind the engines

ailerons shaking each windshield
--you try dragging the trees
to safety, to the warm cheek

you hear slip past
as stars do, weighing you down
your arms immense, bending over.
 
 

*
 

Some sooner than others, the cup
cold, damp and then
a singing, hugs, cakes --this table

prepared, its span would enfold
be guided :the tattoo
must be administered --a stranger

and ask for a refill, assure
a stain and its circle

and the chairs somehow now are carried
higher, boiling pots
allowed to touch our shoulders

and a nail where you would expect
the windowpane to drain
--we hang this cup for birdseed
filled --how many times

though the waxes we buy
are already melted, the table
warmer and unshaken.
 

*
 

Knots stay put and travelers
have their favorites, listen for squeaks
--I hang my coat and the table

can't move, tied by a great cloth
as if it couldn't hear this bread
shaped like a girl jumping rope
whose braids are all I remember :the knot

still trying --it takes a knife
to creak and keep coming
--I stare at the window left open

undo the laces
and my shoes suddenly warm
stopped calling for home.
 

*
 

There are vines and this bowl
keeps warm, my hands
outlining the soft bone between your neck
and its vague whisper :the spoon

wobbles, smells from apple
--I turn my head away
though no one is watching
--close my eyes to wish

and in the darkness
making its way to my lips
to this narrow bench
stretched out, within reach --a waterfall

midair :a table cloth
now more than ever
bent over, stains jutting from the ice
--I forget and the soup

green from birdsong and leaves
still warm where your breasts
finding again and my hands
sift the soup for bones

for what lasts the longest: one half
held up, somehow a wish
flows over the world
over this spoon and clanking.
 

*
 

I must fast and this cup
shallow, staring at sand
--eat nothing but water
though the moon has never forgotten
--my lips even then were dark.

I must crawl
in circles, weightless, my arms
dancing with each other
and the moon comes closer, my knees
bleeding, older.

I must get down to bone, drain
as if the exhausted light
filling with red lullabies

--nothing but this cup left open
--eat nothing but the water
rippling, reaches for my lips
not sure who is singing

and the silt pulls my name away
--I forget who to call
--this craving for moonlight
--from just a few drops
my lips beginning to swell
and the weeping.
 

*
 

As if my lips have learned to weep
--after all these years
the evenings need more room 

--my mouth is used to darkness 
and goodbyes, kisses, though my eyes 
were closed and now this spit trickles 

place to place, covered with feathers 
--it does no good, these sleeves 
are soaked, held closer 

than lifting your arms
and all that time your arms
filling with mist and your arms

seep through my lips --a great wave 
unable to hold back
the hidden sea and your stillness.