Under the bloomed moon I forged & fortuned, I saw
all the forests as leaves, as the wind that broke between
& over & into. The force of nature as the force of beauty
sweet as a betrayal, the once which carries within
its own never & never its own more. I tried to voice
loud. Tried for star or startle. I tried to find a space
solid & grounded. A stone. A trunked tree. A place to hold
my feet to the fire I swore still burned inside. I bled
my time into borrowed, bested & night-wet & begging
the sky wide for any sweetness I could worship
into speaking like a god would, like a fire inside
unframing the body some body built as an else for me.
I walked, well-wooded & nightlit. I sought salvation
or at least explanation. Or at least an excuse for. The force
that runs these legs & the body they carry is never
an answer. The clearing opens into its existence as a clearing
only. Why am I unsated, so hungry with expectation?
Any word a god would speak is a word no human
could understand. I listen to the slick dark & its oceans,
its feathered furies, its glints that may be
eye, that may be teeth. I am not a thing like the world. & the way it whirls
its winds forward. It spurts in gnats & bark, folds its being
back into itself until its god tells it to begin, begin. I may be,
but I have no part of its sweetness. Its greenrise. Its again. Again.