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.