Patience in a storm she leans against

summer for support.

 

In reverie, or dream, a chilled black

earth is pierced and dug to bury her

 

animal where he is placed

in an axed and softened soil.

 

A single foreleg will barely raise before

the dead is covered. Seen. It will be

 

borne by a sudden upstream spill

then in tired silence land on her stained

 

rug — not corpse but breath, not dead but

presence. Shreds of peace in the heat’s

 

breeze. A drying of tiny blue blossoms,

dark poetries of her collected soul

 

nudge the spent beast.

When the soul is made of bits — can

 

a savior still find it? Burned eyes on the flame,

— even when it flares in the background.

 

The immigration of her tears.

The revolution of — ours.

 

Burn down the darkness.

Let the new moon rise.