Beth, just between teeth, the songs
have flooded over us now and left
you smelling of wet earth and sticks
when there are no walls, just between
white trees and white skies, the songs
made the tender heart visible as a star.
I ate that star. I drank the oil. Now
my engines are smooth and going
over the edge of the moon. Now, I’m the eye
in my grandfather’s wood, carving the
morning dove out of the deck and
tired of rain. Now, you made the song
spill over the dancing feet, rush like
after a great run, you contained all
my tears on your salty skin. It was
on my wedding day and I ran through
flooding water with one song going
through me like a morning dove through
the open mouth of the sun. Now, I’m
sure the words weren’t right. Now,
I’m sure I was blinded and searching
these streets for an aisle, for my flowers,
for you telling me there is no man.
Now, I’m the years in my grandfather’s
wood with his patterns and dyes, after the sands
took off the rough voice and which tune
to use every day, the tools humming.
Now, I’m carved out of an image, every one of
them standing at the river and waiting
for the end of the world.