I miss the sea.
I miss the storms
that stopped there.
How much is luck, again opening,
and luck shutting itself down, what we
never expected, or only sort of did,
or should have?
The windfalls of my mistakes sweetly rot beneath me.
Two hawks lift—headed north—from my highest bough.
So he’s seen the blizzard that the future
looks like, and gotten lost,
a little. All the same—
he gathers the honeysuckle in his arms,
as for a lover. Cloud of bees,
His chest, blurring bright with it.
Who’s to say brutality’s what he’ll be wearing,
when he goes?
There’s a light that estrangement,
more often than not, briefly
leaves behind it.
Then the dark—blue and damned,
erotic: here, where—done at last
with flashing like
power itself at first, then what power
comes to—the field
lays down its winded swords. —My head;