This collection of torches convulsing in ink: 

it is not what I wanted to give you.

All whites look older at night and yet 

the tapestry has to include them… 

I wanted you to sip this one swatch of light

that stands singly, and 

the tan peasant wind that catches and fans  

the thin milk of its undergarment, and 

how morning blood un-hasps 

the hatches behind sleep’s cogs, flooding

and the blasted furnace that risks ecstasis 

according to…* Is this truly the color of my hands?* 

I wanted to give you the searing first glance

again, wanted you to grab and fold

into that one swatch of cloth 

and stay and raise your hands 

and your children’s hands later when  

I melt into cadenza and we waft hoarsily past these

pinewood rafters, records of starlings—then

till chance is at last served raw to stirring gods,

till I can’t name the scent of any ripeness

and no longer know what cool water means,

I will needle my eyes into  

the position of afterstars. I will make 

light trip and sift off sandstone in  

the quarries. We have witnessed

too many rutilant past tenses.  

Now I shall be the saver of pauses.

We will need breath later.

We erred. Sky should be easier.  

I thought this would be different, this looking up. 

I thought there would be a granary.