I GRIEVE ELUSIVELY SOLO IN THE COMPANY OF ROCKS
I grieve elusively solo in the company of rocks
whose skulls have been glacially removed
as a chipper breeze intrigues the trees
with the rumours of distinguished extinctions to come.
O my prophetic heads, my exilic deaths,
is the moon an ally or not as she adds
her waterlily to the swamp like a nautical poem
that agitates the ricocheting shadows of the bats.
Witch broth looking for human body parts.
The night broods over the death of a wren
like someone just getting into the arts
hangs on the hook of the muse with bookish allure,
but nothing bites. The fish are wide-eyed and wary.
The wonder of stars applies a poultice to my heart.
We reciprocally heal for a moment. Dark woods
and the wolves are howling over the corpse of the hills.
Snapping turtles sleep in my starmud like the helmets
of World War One, and I dream of wild swans
passing overhead like Albireo and Deneb
in the Summer Triangle wedging its way west.
My life inches toward its setting like an astrolabe of bones.
Mortal arcs of dubious exaltations. No constellation
marks the spot like a seeing eye dog in the dark,
and love dies cowering in sighs of lyrical bewilderment.