When life hides behind the mulch
of what lives, can they expect more
than this refusal to hold each other in the open?
Lemongrass floss between molars,
you wish for foxes. You tell me you don’t wish for them
any novel way, no way – no
word – being more or less novel. You wish for
foxes in the impossible neutral, piss baroquely on
the coal heap around the young lime
whose illness we’ve yet to diagnose
though we yoke answers to the answer.
At the rim of the secret’s crater, you balance
on your head and imagine water
to slant, migrating, because it must. But listen: the Pacific
gull that slit childhood, bombing the ocean, never resurfacing?
It did resurface. What hides from us
leaks what we do not see. Brothers speaking together
underwater. Brothers holding each
I have hidden from you. Keep counting. Keep grinding
memory’s deer knife through gritty, mulched
soil to clean it. When we hold each other, may it not
be the afterlife. Here is a public
garden – a body lighting lemongrass
the breeze wicks from airy, flax clothes
as hunger wicks a fox from another den.