Your hands in the small
place of my bones,
shore of skin
slow furl.
Lord, such delicious
ruin.
Love’s vast colony of hunger.
The maplines crackle, they run
in my maplewood veins.
I would that you know
what is hidden is what is broken
is what is holy.
The mouth, remember,
is red clay.
Time,
rock, weathering
rock, lie here with me
in the dark.
We are the histories
of dust.
I speak to you from my flesh to your flesh:
My loss is a loss with doors.
It opens.