A bee in the field. The house on the mountain reveals itself to have been there through summer. It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke above the chimney as it shreds what it's learned of fire. The horse has moved, it's not a horse but a woman doing the stations of the cross with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself like fire. The woman has stopped, it's not a woman but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals. The everything has moved, it's not everything but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.
From Words for Empty and Words for Full, published by University of Pittsburgh Press. Copyright © 2011 by Bob Hicok. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.