Volume 7, February 2013
Small white church at the edge of my yard.
A bell will ring in a few hours.
People who believe in eternity will sing.
I’ll hear an emotion resembling the sea from over a hill.
One time I sat with my back to the church to give their singing
to my spine, there’s a brown llama you can watch
while you do this in a field if you’d like to try.
I don’t even think calendars believe in eternity.
Beyond the church is a trail that leads to a bassinet in a tree.
Someone put it there when the oak and sky were young.
I’m afraid to climb the tree.
That I’ll find bones inside.
That they’ll be mine.
I want to be with my wife forever but not as we are.
She’ll become a bear, I a season: Kodiak, spring.
Part of loving bagpipes haunting the gloaming is knowing
the bloodsinging will stop.
Beyond the church I pulled a hammer from the river.
What were you building, I asked its rust, from water and without nails?
This is where I get self-conscious about language,
words are love-affairs or séances or harpoons, there isn’t a sentence
that isn’t a plea.
This is where I don’t care that I’m half wrong when I say everything
is made entirely of light.
This is where my wife and I hold hands.
Over there is where our shadows do a better job.