I.

The screen door a telegraph for the wind.
Ghost-layer of green on the fields.
Slowly now, the body begins
to believe in itself.
I walk all morning up and down the stairs
without tiring. I whisper
and that is enough
I think, for now. It is April.
The orchards unfold as if God
might fall asleep at any moment. Forever.
In the morning there is still frost at work
on the blossoms.


II.

Death bides its time, durable flower.
I leave this candle dark.
As if the world start over,
as if different pleasures mattered this time around
the wind clears the aspen of delicate things.
It will rain soon. On the north hill it is winter
less and less. I no longer pretend
to be important. A pane
rattles in the window.
A shard of plaster breaks on the floor.
I breathe out unafraid.


III.

This is the house, hillside overwhelmed by April.
Here the sound of mice between plank-wood and tin—
the foundation settling to the center of the world.
There are things you can never trace back.
There is not one beginning. I run my fingers along my ribs
where cartilage and bone are mending.
One bird sings, then silence.
Evening begins in every direction.
I run my hands through the dust wanting a few stars
to come into view from there, where you are.