Spring: the earth softens and sinks,
tugs us toward our wounds
but we're not brave enough,
can't let beauty
dig its spade deep into us,
to the place where our deaths
are buried.
Blue sky, light dripping
like water from an oar. The eyes
made of silver, as though they don't see
but reflect. It's too much for us;
the pressure of the changing season,
the new leaves struggling to unfurl.
We want to go away,
but can only drift further into the gaping mouth
of what we fear to name.
~ from Breathing Fire 2 (Nightwood Editions, 2004)
