If you must hear the story
of my turbulent gaze after waking,

the march of my hours to hermit
into a higher body, it is that

whatever you put into the Universe
eventually returns.

In our oneness of gift,
   we are eyes together,

nerves together, affected together.
If I’ve never told you

how madly we share in the stars,

how it was all founded for you,
then let the longing for Arcturus

   be the gilding of our sleep.

I know when your time was in its
making, I was left to sing alone,

unfed to trample through a hundred
layers of night without a heart

   to hold my guard.

If I had known all those days
to listen deep into myself so that you

would begin to hear me, I’d sooner
soak the decibels of your cells

into the exhale of my embrace.
A scorning within is within

coming back to scorn.
A rose quartz promise lifted into

the world is the world coming back
to surrender its love.

Even after I took my health
into a vineyard of hawks,

I could not break myself from caring
but only to seek you, find you,

whisper into your palm:
you are not lost, you won’t be lost.

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