Divergence

Pristine the ash                                   no one has touched yet

before wind sweeps it along                         across the altar

                         dusting chrysanthemum and bees

before it is swept off again                

                                                              the way the body burns

            part by part

particle by particulate

                                                              particularly diverging

                                                              its tiny cinders

                        of moth wings.

After sound                                        there is no sound

                                                              a wolf sanctuary

           void of howling

                        headlights on the winding road

picking up snow

                                     a tuft falling on the heron

                         as her wingtips dip into water.

Evolution:    

                         bat wing

                         whale fin

                         my hand shielding myself from light

as I adjust

                                                              frames along the wall

barefoot on the black bookcase

                                     the heat of my footprint

             disappearing though no hand wipes it.

In taking inventory of what’s left

                         what the dead have cleared in space

             a question

                                      like the body of a boy

curled inside his dog’s bed

                                      a boy filling his own rice bowl

                                      until he doesn’t want to

anymore.

                        I want to be beside him in the dark

to hear his voice again

                                      to stop seeing him on the street

                         in the back row         

                                      of a classroom where I teach.

            Is there no end to this need

mushrooms inching along

                         blades of grass after a field of rain

                                                             the heron fishing

wings spread to lure prey into her shade.

In war they say We’re not the top species because we’re nice

In life I say Let me come closer

                                      even if it kills me.