In doors that have opened and slammed shut,
among heads slumped on the tables of wine,
in a voice polished by frosts and upheavals.
In longing, turning its back on the violins,
in trees closing their arms. In the glass
of an afternoon, its blue half hour on empty.
Among eyes, dragging you in. Cut yellow
of lemon, salt poured down. In the green boat
of a bed, beached and the water retreating.
In a curious bird, sound of spilled water, hand
made of mirrors. In rain on the acid page, a chorus
in the pond's throat. One arrow on a branch
practicing silence. You never know who is praying,
just at the moment, not the first time you hear it.
The Bitter Oleander, 2012