to birth today, I give up
one argument for another
as finches weep among
 
branches outside. How is it
to bear something to its end?
The birch will bear the time
 
that is left after we are lost
to the world. Its root system, a prayer
against disappearance. Still, I am paper
 
sloughed off the tree like after
-birth. My mind, trembling
in its own shade. And you, the fog
 
dissipating at my fingertips.
We cannot practice desire
until the sun leans in some
 
days. However momentary. But,
say this warmth on our arms
is love. The earth, small
 
too. That we will each stand
in the shadows
of the other. Blurred
 
animals. Reaching beyond
what we’ve been.