Little Fugitive 1

Summer’s onset–the palms

flattening in the wind, the water,

alive and invasive where

they never were.

There is nothing missing in the notion of

how readily you can be scraped away

morning comes when the birds come to

and—I asked you

yet by then the yard was filled,

bird after bird–

metallic notes

you couldn’t help but hear.

~

The thin bones

of how we begin—despite the sun, burning

holes through everything

the clouds let loose

on the trees

as they bend in the wind

like nothing, ever,

was the matter.

~

Little Fugitive 2

Interstices—standing over

weeds bending

in the bluster, seeds sent through

the afternoon.

Part bloom, part canker—one never knows

when to intervene, if ever, or

if the only, true, avenue

is indeed a dead end.

~

In the low trees, the shore birds

make a nest of everything.

The best cast off,

salvaged bits, really, when I had no right–

when all I ever did was spent–

day-to-day, collapsing star:

your sea-voice begins in the river.

Currents, which you never noticed,

pass muster beneath the bridge

where the lights are.

~

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Assistant Ed: J. Andersson/ Ed: Bryonie Wise