Appareo
In the shivering wet, rain a place of light
ahead of us, its monologue a weakness
on my part because I’ll listen, I’ll monitor
the tendons of lightning, the living shipwrecks
of oak, I’ll spend all night getting it wrong,
the cheap wind no one wanted,
cylinders of geese in their ground-glowing flesh,
the lacquer of any summer ghost
gone soft into the delicate fronds of plant
Articulus
Forgiveness, I am quiet under the damned
eyes of birds, like an old man killing things
aglow, muttering something shut tight
in wood-wild sound, it’s not nightfall
I am seeing, the slow dive of horizon weaned
sheepishly from day, light in its
fainthearted sap and the staggering
white circle so convincing
it could be breath
Aureus
Forest and the dove grow huge,
throw their bodies to silt soil
inside the slighter shock of August,
I should remember a ghost has a habit
of speech, I should be that golden, half-starved
sound, hair below my waist
taking note of plover drift, field back toward the first
floating tantrum of the feathery
world, just a layer of far love
Read three poems by Kimberly Burwick previously appearing in Terrain.org.
Header photo by courtesy Pixabay. ,