This is the green we grew up in: humid blue of the blur of our
weedy dark. These are the roads we drove into the country with
sweet, cheap wine. This is the sky of watery silk under which we
hearts, cried out; the song of gnat and firefly and wasp and dove
Here is the place I chose exile from, sharp-hearted, sure of some
world. And still, how it takes me back. How you grip the wheel and
don't say Remember. Don't say anything.
Lasswade, Midlothian: Dusk
Crow, I cried, I need to talk to you.
The whole sky lurched.
Black wings. Most bitter trees
I've ever seen. Wild daffodils.
Here is a world
that is just as the world was world
before we named it world.
Here is a sky that screams back at me
as I rush toward it, darkening.