I begin on an uncertainty of asphalt.
I run with my mouth open. I open my mouth to breathe
into yours. On a whim
the Queen Anne’s lace offers the roadside a galaxy.
I run. You take care of my breath.
You take care of it again.
Is this a practice of trust
or a consequence of summer’s washes and decoctions?
Like one admonished for not darkening enough
my nights, I ask further into the inﬂorescent
quiet. Once a woods, always a woods.
The sky begins at my mouth: star, moon, meteoric truck.
I ﬁnd the wind. You ﬁnd my west.
The contours of the pasture
repeat the contours of animals who wake
in the promise of grass.
I love exhaustion. I love it again.
From The Yale Review, April 2013, issue 101.2.
Image: Alfred Stieglitz, Georgia O’Keeffe, ca. 1919-1920. From the Art Institute of Chicago.