THERE ARE PLACES I NEVER WALK
This is not a story
it is a heart, a last bloom in a family
of blooms, a sun in the drying rivers,
little wet places that crack and turn to moon.
There is no one to blame but myself
when the last great beasts
trample the village or the village
tramples the last great beasts.
I am aware of your sickness
oh sea, I grind the last corn
in the palm of my stony gratitude
and make a whore of every tree, a cesspool
of every spring. There are little hungry islands
in the carnivorous currents, and all the cosmetic
jets and gyres of our junk
spin the planet into loss
upon loss upon loss. Do I dream?
Do the animals from the storms in my sleep narrow
and reduce as if the store of symbols in my
great soul can only shrink
by degrees every time a rare dragonfly
disappears or a swallowing salamander
buries in mud that is scooped away
in the tunnels of our lust?
I want badly to live past my life
but my home is shedding its sins, burned and blown,
and the offspring of my dreams
have lost their colors
and their dark sky.
These are the days we understand
how much we are merely one
and nothing can be broken apart.
The gods make teeth of the intrepid
invasives, blistering ferns and loosestrife and hordes of carp.
The last giant trees fall over in a little breeze.
After our deaths
there will be no other.