It’s all about passageways
isn’t it? Rhizomes snaking through
loosened earth. Oaks thrusting taproots
towards buried streams. Striped bees buzzing
past petals crested with ladybugs,
dancing their codes of location.
Your eyes crinkled with mirth, it seemed,
we talked on flagstones dappled
with lichen and high-summer
murmurs, avoiding what once moved
between us. Or was that worry
I glimpsed between shadow and light?
Or moments when selves turned
transparent and each knew no
other, stopped between was and
will be? Shade has its own way of
seeing. Juggling with gravity
I’m here, looking at you. You’re still
there, looking at me.
The Sixty-Four Best Poems of 2018 (Black Mountain Press, 2019)