Some days I am so filled with myself
I can see nothing — who I was, others are,
what any burden meant. The nights
come and go, my thoughts loosen and return,
and even now I am not sure the cardinal
in the empty tree is there or if I dreamed
it waiting. If I walked out now
into that muffled quiet, my face would
cover in ice-dust and my hands, lacing,
would be alive. Such great weight
in this nothing that falls over surfaces,
the driveways and unused roads.
I feel the gulls floating in summer
above barges, the rain abandoning itself
to fields, the words you wrote or said
in undistorted honesty. In a room
I feel my body draw across yours.
I don’t know how it happens — how it unfolds.