I walk in a straight line as a compass pulled the wrong way north.
High Priestess of the Not-Quite. Chief Dolorous. And fuck it all—
All of it. Unobserved, clement.
Being the one who—being the one that—–
I have the problem of needing to say my history teeth-first to a body
of water—to the river, to the gutter, to the storm drain red & rushed
with leaves in dirty water on the way to your apartment maybe
I should give up the story that what I say can change it
notwithstanding one for, one against your cowardice
notwithstanding halfwinter light torn up wet-white & eyeless
& I know I should sky up birdward—I know I should circle high
until my arms are kited cramped but can I see you
plainly or at all from any height do I know how
to see you I do but I don’t & I can’t
find you on a March night moonless on the hill where I know you
are out walking the treeline slowly with your dog.
Tell me if I can make the not-moon intercede—
If I can come south as a figure wearing starlings as a coat
If I can be If I can be If I can be
a tunnel either leafing or branching or——
If I can be If I can be If I can be