We are lost: the destination, it seems, has been misplaced.
Trails switchback up the foothills, snarl at the summit.
We hear the cry of the wind’s bride, the hummingbird’s alibi.
We speak as one voice from a mutual vantage point.
We speak with two voices, back to back: echoes wrought by distance, by time.
In the well, we find only depth, only hours muddled by wine.
How many tons of tailings for the thin bronze of our bangles?
How many times can our four hands exchange the frayed string of a cat’s cradle?
The city, ravaged by flame, heals over with nettles and bindweed.
As flood water channels into fields, a burnt trunk exudes perfumed resin.
After much racket, the crows leave, appeased, or so it seems, but by what?