you have slept in the barn
when you had the notion
and haystack eyelids bejewelled
with evening dew.
beneath the stars you have wept
lucid and bewildered.
with only so many tortoise shells
to intercept the ocean
caterwaul… with hollow houses
of slow ghosts.

you have made a path
in the sodden earth
with misbegotten hurt
and jolts of jubilation.
gone East in Westerly ways
bathing in thimbles
of burning desire.
you’ve made a living
out of dying on the vine
in full bloom.

like a plausible
hope.