Dry thunder. And across the river, a slake of lightning
in bright retreat. My mind’s not yours.

It lacks distinction. Look with me, look at that sparrow
Caught in laceration, spare error of amber heat.

Honey, salt, muscadine.

The hiss and gone of a bulb dimming,
Of a dog lying down for the night. Soon, centuries:

Balding, redolent, green. And some sore feeling.

Perhaps you’ve looked in the mirror once too long
And assumed the form.

Come back from it. There is, yes, the mind’s wide way
Of shifting—planetary, like the battering of wings.

We both heard it that night, lying still-wet
In the growing dark of the deck.

A panicked tapping, real quiet, like a fly in a net.

I’d rather have you than understand things.