If We Ate The Sweet Plums, All Our Small Angel Bones
on a day when loved ones die, we forget to gather
our loose and inverse threads
a coal-brick egg on a snow-sky plate
how fireweed speaks to the earth on those first purple days
where through the fabric the pinpricks trip alike
we twinned and spun in concert
in a season of december-dark stars and raveling feathers
even the mold spore has a beauty of its own making
when the ecstasy of sex and catharsis marry on the easel
we roll onto our backs, galaxies dressed in signature gowns
we are maypoles braiding each light-lit body owlish
and penny poor and we became the eye
the one safe place where nothing’s left
undone
