all my goodness has flown—
from the wildflower’s wrath to
my fingers

pressing invisible buttons on
grassy dew.
I

should know this season by now—
dry of meaning and bent metal
into the frozen river.

the note I wrote you was short—
spoke of moons we cannot see
and my rushing ego
drowning mountains
on tiny blue-green surface—
a million

bleached bones
are wrapped in their tired stripes—
now crushed,
miniature,
and multiplied—
many of the many

and the red feathers that float

away.