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.
