you almost sound
like me—a scratched record
spinning still
you almost sound
like me—a scratched record
spinning still
you say you know me
but really only mock
all I do
who’d give such a name
to a herald of dawn and
daily companion?
morning
moon, by now you’ve
found me out
with a telescope
turned backward I might create
distance between us
tribe names in many
languages mean “people”—mine
means “horse feeder”
not water but ice
frozen in full sun,
bright and cold
a dry path leading
nowhere and, deep in its bed,
a creek sleeping
stand near dreamers—
you may imagine wildly
perfumed colors
frozen footprints
in mud—spring given and
taken back again