I know forgetting myself is a good thing, the best loss.
The trees look soft in the fog’s distance, egg-colored light
all over them. Even the sheep,
eggy.
          The earth dries in ribs the rain has drawn on it.

Trees here grow up out of the water. Too little light
to tell what color but the ground that isn’t shining is made of leaves.
So these pools are mirrors:

were it on earth as it is in heaven,
blue land of we-will-all-meet-at-the-table,

I could be for other than myself successfully
without first having to lose someone I love.

THE FIRST YEAR IN THE WILDERNESS

i. Spring

My friend’s little daughter was pulled
under.

What began as a single
instance of labor became
circular:

the child’s mother on her hands
and knees, pushing
floor wax into tile grout
across the emptied house.

ii. Summer

Every window
hung with stained glass crosses

casting rainbows,
coloring

the throw rug and the wall.

Men. Silence,
great crashes of noise at long intervals.

The cat sacked out on the floor.

iii. Fall

Her prayer:

My preparations have outlasted
your stay,

so I have not only
the afterglow of you but also

little signs still
that you are bound for me.

iv. Winter

The only place open after midnight:
tall-stalked bar stools,

the valley laid into the wood
of the wall.

We stayed up
with the lottery sign’s crossed fingers,

while the animals
lay down in the field.

The lanes are lined with poplars who lose their leaves to winter
but to whom nothing further wintry happens.

I design it so the marriage lasts as long as the lives,
and the children outlive their parents.

They are all startlingly easy to make happy. They recover
from unease like lightning.

When it falls apart my frustration is like a child’s,
unable to say, unable to make something
happen by saying.

To speak in someone else’s voice is a pleasure, but not a relief.
My tongue burns in its cavity.

My recreation of us is unforgivable
in the sense that I am the only one here to forgive it.