Lately, I feel the days fly out into the dark trees
Without you whose love was air-thin and particular,
I’m left these
daughter-hands of bone that do me little good,
for nothing but wandering vast terrain. Restless,
wayward frequencies, I crave the open space
Sleep rinses me little clean—& the hours keep
dark show-boxes of emptiness. Each breath—
a white button
undone. See what our hands know? How to open
at summer’s end. Watch me, I say, queen of the shades,
from wherever you are, mother, the word on my lips
of white—chalk, milk, titanium, snow. First there’s a harvest.
Then a death.
Then a field where absence in wildness begins to grow.