There’s an unexplainable warmth
of the moon
of the bottom of the lake
Where we hang elegies beneath the water
for the trees cut without a sound
There’s a magpie that sleeps alone in the cherry tree
adorned in sterling loneliness
A raven that steals lines of conversation
back to its quietest nest.
There are the candles of our voices catching on every curtain
The boiling of sap beneath our skin.
There’s a comfortable torture
of being apart, of being together—
a violent indifference to the forest fires
beneath our feet.
Too many things axe-to-wood split
So many things axed
before they could be said.