Aspen Eyes
In a dream, I drive past
a splintered tree
that is you and I
wail.
A quaking aspen with
her limbs felled.
Somehow I know this
is a past life
where night reveals
herself in negatives.
Behind whale blue
hides a bloodbath sky
your myoglobin womb
a moss cocoon
and I am an unborn
seedling sowed
from your demise.
In every life
except this one
you die so
I live.
You lurk alive
in my waking hills,
aspen eyes unblinking
in the dawning air.
Even in dreams,
I cannot drive.
Spirits sprint in rearview.
The trees exhale their grudges
blowing blame
in the direction of wildfire.
The Secret
I lick the bluebells by the bus
and all the hens crow.
Where is the secret
God owes me
Sharp and sheathed
and silver to bless me.
A worker switches on
the light in my chest.
Bone white glare
of the cold abattoir.
Among us he strolls
across mounds of debris:
Five floors of rust,
hook, shadow.
Outside, crows tread
the afternoon haze.
A freight truck shrieks
its brakes too late.
How pretty the sight,
He says.
A wall of red fates dangling
by the heels in wait.
