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.