Visitation

The dead crowd my legs
those who leave us late can never forget
they wander and find way between the lids of eyes
to spill into our dream

Maybe I did not till the garden with fervor
turn the soil under the light of stars, to see
if the seed splayed open in the breath of dawn, if end
of you is the beginning of me

I drape time on you as if it is enough
not to grasp the silk slip away through the space where
silence pools in your curled fingers that trace
the horizon as a jagged line

A river ran here fifty years ago, a wasteland now
the roots of trailers hear the rustle of water
that like ghosts let breeze blow through hollow shell
to grasp life that has no matter

The bird hollows out the sky ball sized, slices a path
taut like the birth canal – the only passage with no return
which then loosens in the vast breast of blue
under the gland that nurtures eternity

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