the river deepens, thickens—it is night
and now I am able to see your torso, white and glistening, move above the black
I see your mind too—its small fire-like net of kindling—its trap
of thought—I have a raft
a drowned man left behind—I’ll blow it up and follow you,
your wading path, your marvel through here—as through my own
mind’s riot of rivers
you steal my heart

the birds and I are restless—awake—alone—raw’s the hour dawn—
I hear the stream break across the rocks in rapid white bursts
of brisk explosions—
I hear the shrapnel-like voices of the birds constellate and swarm—
mute it for me with your presence, with your step
come here, see my ax—touch
the path I carved

it is midnight, but I have found the lamp
of the forest
left on, always left on—this waterfall—its surge—its white
wattage lights the hall of woods—
the rock’s moss—the stick paths—this lamp left on
what you once did—my missed one—come again—
the dark

you know I love
the damaged thing—and so I send this petal to you—torn
from the other
morning glories of the mountain side—
this half-face, ripped—I send it
from where I wait for the wind to bring me more
wild flaws—to fold
into your letter

this new phosphorescent dark
drugs me now—
more awake, more alive—
everything here buzzes, in this forest after-hour, in this
the leaves are amplified and the bamboo thatch is a wired wall—it is
not you
this time—my black
drop of dew—not us—this time—but an airy phosphorescence
is the drug