Box of Stars

 

for Sara

I hate when the gods leave us.
Field of wind, field of wine: a headache
is a loneliness in which to lie down.
So one enters sleep every night, a little softer,
walks softly over graves. The brightness
in the sky neither the color of rust nor moth.
Lucid because we do not yet understand.
Though we imagine its meaning. Like a poem,
given freely and forever, made for burning.
Another season flown through. I have the one word,
the one branch I will continue to break to prove
it is mine. And I can make something of suffering
the way I can make something of elbows.