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Poetry

Walking the baby
at noon along
our vacation road
I turned toward
a lit hum
animating old oaks
ryegrass salvia thistle
wild distance folding
six white boxes’
uncountable pale thoughts
measuring the air
our foreign bodies
nearly colliding
but clearer, wouldn’t—
not mine, hum
I heard only
when the baby
slept against me.
I was here
not to disappear
my poems waiting
in the city
these five days
with the children
spilling out eagerly
across the valley
upturning the pastures’
cold green body.
Someone else’s work
someone’s split panic
above the boxes
wild stitch work
the hive splitting
into mother
and mind,
known oak risen
from its place.


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