The Nine Day Ricochet
(1 of 5)
The elms catch fire and color in the cold, which is almost
caught. The elms aren’t in love
but almost sing Lau, Lau, Lau in the wake of wind
that is not killing them again, though almost.
Followed a leaf down the street
with fat bag of grain in hands.
It’s like the sky was never a halo
and then the familiar stain of dream.
We speak so little now between the slightly trees:
us in this stature of skin and sin, you
in a spirit’s informal vestments.
For the gone days and fullness is.
Hello, gone, song: the ask you: the now.
(skies at the cathedral gates creak
and snap back in push and song
we walk the least places in this migrant
and thin thinking and moonlight silver
power lines cross the good earthscape
like God’s stray hairs) Can you suppose—