you exhale; it is the wind through
the forest; the rising of brittle
brown leaves

into a uniform, twisting thing
of color; our lives bounded
along its length

then it rests; the long brush-
stroke reaches canvas’ edge -  
a clearing

(this is not the end, but as if
only to pause for another
breath)

Green eyes.
Green, yellowish in
the center.
Sunflowers in
the center, and
white skin and
freckles and
everything else is
red

Old myths dying under
the new sun
rising, spilling over
grassy fields dotted
with poppies

The day is unspoiled.

With night sky
there is usually
a moon there.
Usually.
But not always.
A pale surface
beaten into—
An expression,
as if saying,
"I am tired.
I have seen too much."

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.