12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

April 6

the forest of the morning

a mossed wedge of wool
those cypress from here
a forest’s mouth, lined
with pine
spanned by bready stone
the river strolls
fogged as lamp glass

heady insects spin in pairs
and threes
alight like crumbs

when a doe breaks the jar
of the river open
the first liquor of her day
sends up breath to smoke the dawn
sets sail ripples, each
circle the messenger of tryst
each whispers: here, now, now
to greet the muzzle opposite

we leave them now
to fathom the bridge downstream
to perhaps meet, or turn

fling our eyes through the
sediment of mist
a skyful of swallows
who skate, throw knives
at one another
and at a cat
I know
who bellies
low in the underbrush
marks out her kingdom
on her way home from a long
night of meetings.

ForestStream copy

Tell me wotcha reckon

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