What moves the reddened wood
of my blood
the brightened eye of my eye its wick
lit by a river trembling with fire

what novas in the forest –
immaterial pulse of feathers
grey as waves
against a shore I cannot name

what was I once that I should be again
what precedes me will remain
when I’m dissolved into the ethereal speech of grass
gone green again

I will leave my body as I have done before
a small meal for my predators and my kind
on this field’s floor

I will spread unseen like water spilling
from a glass
the current that moves between
sibling things

what pervades me
for a taste of the contained
the defined world both elegant
and maimed

what sustains the forms
that haunt the particular life
what claw
what claw of water
hunts me down.