Mutatis Mutandis
Pebbles, leaves, rain—
they disappear into the river.
Even the shadows of the black branches above
(their bark peeling like thick burnt paper) disappear.
But we don't disappear:
Not into the breeze: it brushes
against the pale sides of our arms
(rustle of dry leaf against wood, quick suckle
of an inhale, cool shearing of cracks)—
Granted, this is not a world that keeps us.
Granted, there are some sadnesses
in which I do not long for God.
In Tennessee I Found a Firefly
Flashing in the grass; the mouth of a spider clung
to the dark of it: the legs of the spider
held the tucked wings close,
held the abdomen still in the midst of calling
with thrusts of phosphorescent light—
When I am tired of being human, I try to remember
the two stuck together like burrs. I try to place them
central in my mind where everything else must
surround them, must see the burr and the barb of them.
There is courtship, and there is hunger. I suppose
there are grips from which even angels cannot fly.
Even imagined ones. Luciferin, luciferase.
When I am tired of only touching,
I have my mouth to try to tell you
what, in your arms, is not erased.
