5.11.08

SEVEN

arise in blonde blades Your
spine curling in slow back
current. blades that break back
back a little a little 
wing unfurling from the bird
i cannot name i cannot
i cannot, bruised with wandering

birch wings wondering whether
Your creek will curl me again
for current claims the birds, though
current slender catches the 
last of summer, Falling, the
sloughing off when old oaks itch
blonde and listless (What Young Girl

in sun too long, What shifting
eyes wander dark with sloughing
off) i wonder Will You Walk
ahead but You do not, You 
Walk With, walk with. You hold oak
arms away with, You pluck black
spindlefingers from my hair

blonde no longer (i am old)
but blunt bough, broken oak skin
the skin of the creek, sewn leaves
the curling, dark the listless bird 
dark breathes the skin of our sleep
O How Deep how blonde the bed
and The Buried You In Me.