in the diminishing light that settles on red flowers

the pressure exerted by the petals on what needs to be unveiled—
a feeling like thickened air against bare skin. it is here that my
desire is like a measuring tape: the wish to gauge the area of the
given and the possible. a space that includes the blue-green
needles of the juniper and the patch of dirt covering the tulip
bulbs. and the star that becomes visible over the elm. the effort
to be less concerned that it exists in a time that is not my time. to
be unshaken by the shadow I can’t identify on the dimly-lit fence.
night resists being quantified. there is a suspicion that nothing
I’m saying really resembles the shape of the wound: a form that
may have more to do with the faraway sounds of old and familiar
things coming loose, diffusing into the darkening sky—the white
ash made pure by its own burning.

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