a forest
full of wood-piles and now
no forest
darkness
no voice can beckon you
into
because we
only almost trace the same
circle
to imagine
night as once sailors did—
clockwork
a moon more
anchor than float—rusting
after summer rain
temperamental—
when the scent lasts longer
than the fruit
no filter—
the honeyed sun, the sticky
clock muted
breath lapping against
dawn’s shore and the white sigh of
mechanical air
stirring black coffee
and clouds of milk—first storms
of day awake
lines drawing
a stream to the horizon—
ink and paper wed