bellow

above the sycamore seeds of my youth you’re waiting a goose swept in dips near twilight a feather dislodged in the pond that shouldn’t be wet once a gape of stone too shallow to consider the bruise but i’ve met you come across you and there’s nothing more than to sit a moment sink my toes a moment and hope for december duff to slip off your back as you beat an offering to my side how ribbed how silver i press as it blows