The Last Days of Summer Before the First Frost

Here at the wolf’s throat, at the egress of the howl,

all along the avenue of deer-blink and salmon-kick

where the spider lets its microphone down

into the cave of the blackberry bush—earth echo,

absence of the human voice—wait here

with a bee on your wrist and a fly on your cheek,

the tiny sun and tiny eclipse.

It is time to be grateful for the breath

of what you could crush without thought,

a moth, a child’s love, your own life.

There might never be another chance.

How did you find me, the astonished mother says

to her four-year-old boy who’d disappeared

in the crowds at the music festival.

I followed my heart, he shrugs,

so matter-of-fact you might not see

behind his words

(o hover and feed, but not too long)

the bee trails turning to ice as they’re flown.