Now it is raining.
There’s a clarity that makes so long
a life. Again, then, the outside-it-all
and a guarantee
of some exquisite
curse to hate the days you live,
hate them as you live them,
that is, the manner of how you spend
the hours. In the deep grass,
the quiet animals: their eyes slow
and narrow beneath yellow lids.
There, one finds no home.
My back sways beneath
a weight of memory, what
comes with the dream of the lost brother
and the disappointed light of late February.
The fragile bones of birds’ wings
foretell a sleepy anger
in their own good time.
there’s nothing to summon back.
The arrow is pointed skyward.
Every angle is terrifying.
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