To go where honey slips through halls of cloud. To open like a book
in a field of memory where a crow splits, doubling with its shadow
flying high and low at the same time. To leave your phone
in the baked heat of the car and introduce the little path turning
into whitethorn, becoming a deeper shade of now. To enter
the walled garden and feel the quiet rush of history, vaulting freedom.
To feed them between squares of wire, stroke their heads and horns
lovingly, envying their simplicity. To veer from the cobbles and spy
among the cobwebby rafters the alien station of a Nepalese owl.
To break from the pack and feel your nerves hum like electric
wire in the dark, a shower of blood pressed against your skin.
To hold this at bay and quietly shake among ferns and primroses.


To let it flow from bone like an untamed algorithm. To push mind
and body to the brink and sit and weep with the dead. To think
hunger lurks in every person’s head. To those that leave and come
back as a ring of flowers in a wood or as feverish dreams in the night
where life is acted out in secret. To those who have known the fright
of staring at a ghost, who have seen its sunken eyes bear the depths
of an abandoned future, unborn children frittering beneath the glass.
To those in the waiting room of the soul, recovering the body.
To the sun rising like a fist. To secular flesh and blood pining
or the crest of reason. To let them go, the innumerable loved ones
whom you cherish like rain. To loosen the black armband behind
crestfallen eyes and go to where honey slips through halls of cloud.