The Whole I'm Told We Return To
eventually, // unyoked from wire & // weed, muted to a noun that no
longer // wilds violently // against its box, like horses sleeping
through a barn fire, // like a fire that blackens not // a single rafter or
the dreams of // horses sleeping inside, the words we boys // hurt
ourselves on grating // smaller boys over & the barbed // fences
meant to keep us // from our neighbor’s // daughters, that nothing-
quite-sticks of a mother’s // tired prayers, // her light amputated by
heavy // curtains, cottonwood, & an absent // father, bold neon bars
& the distance // a body must travel to see itself // beautiful, to see //
the beauty the field buries beneath // months of hardened snows:
gone; now,
the lanterns born into // my eyes, long cold // relit not anything like
cigarette-sparked hay bundled into barn // fire keeping // the horses
from dreaming far // from our halters; eventually // it’s all the same
silent // congregation of cormorants, // they keep telling me, // that
one enormous world- // swallowing we // all of us together again
without // bodies eating // without food holding you // without arms
