Forever turning from the eyes,
arms, the small pink ears,
flowers in their last brief burst
of beauty; there is no terror
for the dead. But I am caught
between perfection and the dormant
blur of flesh like grounded silver
fish whose tidals have expelled them.
There are rituals for evening, not
unlike the layered stones of bridges;
geography becomes a journey here to
there without prosperity or destination.
In these moments of lucid resurrection
choose the river or the blue-cast hills
or walk a path that intersects them
through the quiet, thistled meadow.