Remission


I fall asleep in wet grass,

above the rocks


of someone else’s country

and wake at dusk.


Leaves falling. Light falling.

Earth wanting


everything back. Everything

coming to an end.


Exploding heads

of dandelions, snowing up


into wind

and spreading beneath


the late bent shadows

of a flamed elm. All afternoon


the elm has been tracking

time, moving


and curving, between orbs

of light


that shatter into a million

little stars


and soften the distance

between then


and now. I feel nothing

but this


wind, wind

with her heart for weather—


wind that knows

what it means to be cold


for a long time.

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