We funnel it between the stones.
What stones become is what
holds them together. A crushing
summer: white hydrangeas, in
dry winds, nod. In Adirondacks
we can’t fix, in a twilight beyond
repair, we recline, and an orange
tanager—what you asked
someone to come back
as—lights, and vanishes.
Copyright © 2019 Andrea Cohen. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, May/June 2019. Reprinted with permission of the author.