the way light encases stripes of blood, the
irregular rising and falling of a chest the crookedness
that lines a smile

the way a tear is shed
because of something
not so sad at all
the kind of face made beautiful only
in movement

the years flashing soundlessly the ragged rays
arching the sky, the stinging
scent of wild pine in the
hot white air of smoke too cold
for anything less than passion

the call of birds you do not know
the wading knee-deep in rivers that fill you
and with outstretched arms you yell with lungs that
grasp the painful pounding throbbing rushing
rawness of a sun too fierce to rise
a space too wide to fade
a soul too small to know
a world too still to sing
and still it sings and still you break
the way you need to
on the lost, primeval shore