was thought; immortality,
80,000 beds. Numbers
were children, each one a home.
Honey closed little, little
paths: long faults too dark to know.
What’s what? Adios. The world:
Adieu trout. Nevermore night across
long whispers of rain. Forgotten once,
dear ground, mother’s tiny stone: the moon.
House, roofless; here, a door: a bird of
salt, a minnow of night’s forgiveness.
A goose is no heron; a graveyard,
no home. Of salmon in rock shadow
resurrection means love-light so small.
No more whistle of farewell. In moonlight
Half-here seeds of yesterday: thoughts.