These nights I think I know
what the ground wants.
Mostly, an ending: the glaciers
awake, harbors turned
to meadows. But you
are different, alert at the edge,
awaiting some direction.
We seek death because
we are strange to it.
Mostly I imagine you riding
your bicycle into the trees,
as far as you could, until dead
wood. What was it you were
seeking? The forest’s center
stillness, more limbs on the ground
than in air? Other times I think
I told you to go, turning
to the light to see what fell there.
Nothing, then the whitest wing,
water moths of snow which clung
to trees until the trees
thinned, half in shadow, half
gone, in this way like acid.
This then is your gift to me:
distance, a white fence.
Ask yourself,
is this what you wanted?
Go on. Ask me anything.
