John Swain, 7/12

Terrible the red

closing of birch

all around

deer paths sunk

and crossed

into nothing.

I lit the skin

with brightening

noon sun

like a third day

of mercies

on the land.

I prayed

awake in sleep

for the return

of the person

like a bright bird

inside the skull.

An imperiled cry

arose from the salt

as the trees grew

into lapis.

Sunset on dune lavender clematis

though oats stayed gold for the crow

and the people refusing to speak

upon greeting,

I hated their faces in my weakness.

Water dripping

from the balcony stained the page

torn from an antique history book

I found earlier on the sand.

I traced the image of the terebinth

on my palms pressing the weather

for a hidden burial.

Dark ink blurred like another night

when I went outside

to the eyeless sea reading psalters,

I archived the bruit of the shallow.