The mists roll over the cold and dewey ground
and I, beneath the brightening bowl, breathe in
every clue left by night I've found:
the shifting palate, the gate's relaxing pin
as that blue door lays out a feast of light.
Is there one more in a dream of summer
for whom the wyay the sanguine birds rewrite
day's invocation makes them utter
all their countless gratitudes in word,
in open hand, in soft eyes her searching for
that moment when truths bound in flesh are stirred
to leave the home of fear. When you say 'more'
the powerful world may move to mute you.
Nature may not know mercy, but I do.
Old Dog Running
In the moments during which the dog is running
you could barely tell her young body from this old one she's found
with its excited mohawk
and five-o'clock sugar.
I want to always be new,
always to fear her
the way everything should be feared.
Framed by two peacocks,
she is midair
by the woodpile.
If only they would start screaming.