Parading

Press your knees against the mountain, or against

Remembering glitter on the first river

I open my mouth to the wind. The wind

My story—hieroglyphics of scuff and blister.

You want what runs out through a low visibility.

My god, / in the dark his eyes burned so clear

something / Large and old awoke. And then our singing

I / am beneath that water.

We are like a field … of wild flowers … unpollinated … swaying

O, my scouring eye