artifacts
I'm burying my head deep
into a distant May
a stretch from this late January where an
unseasonable warmth
has reawakened
these lilacs beneath my skin
(they sprawl, varicose,
purple clusters
across my forearms
around the backs
of my shoulders)
come close
it's on my breath
the soil radiant but cool
just three handfuls down:
water from a spring melt filtering
deep to the roots
the china-doll's broken foot
spent shell casings
and chimney stones
marked by old fires have torn
my nails
wedged the nutrients deep into
my fingers
where growth begins
mid-winter hike
1
home is where I'm too whole and each
step in any direction
is the losing of something
I replace the pieces
with something new—
light on the crusted snow
leg bone of a deer
gnawed twice,
by coyote and myself
trying to get at the marrow
of things
I want to return satiated
full of something I hadn't missed
before, so spent I'm unable
to sleep for dreaming
2
pine cones grow warm
on the side of this hill
where sun has drawn back
the snow
the dry grass, the needles
glow with an idea of what spring is—
memory and prophecy
the cones open
their wooden petals
and seeds are always hidden
near the center waiting for
fire
only wind
and the winter birds' chatter
can speak so patiently
of the slow hand of sun opening up
everything
a bit at a time
unhurried
3
I'm not alone out here,
someone dogs me
at every turn
I fumble to recall
the name
as I stumble home
carrying words
so as not to jostle them
into a trite retelling
who is it? I spin
who's there?
out this far, it's impossible
to be alone
before you teach
1
a few hours before class
drive out Tinton road
until you leave any traffic
behind you
the trees will not distract you
they will stand
perfectly still
here, you must leave the
the beaten path
and join them along
an ancient road left
overgrown
wind your way among them
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