The sandpaper lick of meadow grass
sheds a prickly cascade
as we brush along cloven paths.
Blueprints that boot-heels cross…

Barely an octave in,
Torn between two signatures
and more familiar, already,
with closed containment.

For a man in a concentration camp
Any move is the wrong move,
Twisting tightens the bonds
and strangles flesh.

As much as I would
fly to you,
you must arc to me
on gilded wing

We are wedded with tragedy
Like a night flight
Shrouded with nervous attendants.
Sparrows fall from trees