Concussions of light.
River, bridge, abandoned mattress.
As if out of need, it is late in the year.
Wolves’ bivouac for flense and birth.
Tremble of backwater imperceptible, as when a fever returns.
Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly.
Poverty of linden.
All of my errors have been of omission.
I cannot bring a world quite round
Or is it moccasin.
I cannot bring a word down for the room I left behind.
Poverty of mission.
And other maimed unities.
The room a group of voices has left.
Asphyxiations of wind.
A group of voices: myself, brother, mother and
Omissions, stopped waves.
We will meet at the river.
A wolf placenta stains the abandoned mattress.
Our hour will never come.