there’s no salt…

— AM Ringwalt

there’s no salt in the air
no cactus-blade

                            so I locate
myself in wanting, brow bent

              locate
myself in [               ]





wanting
the not-narrative

of creek,
of deer’s stare

through thicket / I
locate my-

                       self

counting deer against absence

               (fifteen bodies of fur)





dreaming of winged things
on my skin—no docks, no
movement

                       this Pegasus,
plane

these looping branches

(do I detach or fill?)





I locate in ho-
llow, futile arm span

wanting the wool of
my grandmother, her hand

on the radio, / thermostat,
eyes tiring





wanting wool
against cold





I kneel to the sightless sky
so it might take me

I kneel to the sightless sky
this prayer for flight





I speak through this branch-loop,
interior clearing:

                                                          What does the deer see when it looks at me?


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