Poor heron, time-stewed, nothing left but skirt.
How should I take you in, a sketch in dirt?
Sungirl. Wild treasure. Boneless Diotima.
When I look at you, a dumb nostalgia
slinks through my brain, leaving impressions
of life in the jelly grove, but its moving is
rubbed out by the dull line of something dragged
by the horns. Yet here you are: staged, winged.
Dead things live and expand. Ghostfish climb
out into the white chalk of nighttime.
This is between me and you and the screen.
They’re divining maps from your dust again.
The bloodstopper, thumbnail, beer, straw hair: trees.
What's true isn’t always the outcome of rules.
Burned, loved. I say your name like one touches
A moon-thing: barely, in case it corrupts.