whole universes of minute white flowers


fear has crooked nose and aphasia. she says
you’ll be down here at the old charcoal trail
but she rumors. i don’t know you

like I know migration.
the opposite direction.
even in this running you told me

you were heaven. i couldn’t dream you—
i tried.
and i almost believed you.

i knew you weren’t, couldn’t be, though
i’ve done enough waiting. dirt cuts

an excellent trail the trail is the stream
is blind where you are