All is burnt. We rebuild.

the coats of all seasons will drop from our shoulders and we will become houses for the wind target practice for the ice arrows we have not learned tomorrow’s one, two we have not learned the wilding song we have not learned the grief words we have not learned the new highroads they were not made for us we are only in the way but we will learn the small trail we will drink from the lost alphabet we will climb the hidden map the mirrors will melt and we will find a path for our feet, a sky for our faces a thump for our hearts rising from their sleep dance the clocks will shatter and we will hear the rope of the hours, the pulse of the days

the poems are tucked with the bicycle helmets the dishes are stacked in the fireplace the children are on the shelf with the cookbooks this is my house this is my dance this is my quiet peace overflowing yesterdays, question mark tomorrows empty hands marked with ghostly grime of course I drop the books. of course I catch the ball it doesn’t matter it doesn’t echo we have all the time the tiny little squares we stand on the giant poems bursting overhead the doubtful systems that we use it dreams just like us this is the stolen night it doesn’t matter today I swam in a paint-dry ocean today I waited as fast as I could today I kissed the unlovable world it didn’t matter it didn’t echo it is almost time

All of a sudden the bakery All of a mouth the creature All over hot the driveway All out of pocket the pickers All over town the regret All of a piece the rumble Alakazam, the belly All over now, the shouting All of us masked, this peacetime All over shy, this spring All of the worst, over now? Always already the bakery

If this turns out to be the last day we can speak will we feel foolish for the unsaid words? the baby bucks head-butting in the yard will go on play- ing, trampling our unsaid words. The world might creak to an end on this last day. Frightened away, maybe the baby words will find each other in the yard, nest under the hooves of the wannabe bucks, on this last day we could have spoken. The silent bucks will come to rest. (This poetic form is called san san, which apparently means “three three” in Chinese. It rhymes as you see (a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d), and also repeats, three times, each of three terms or images; in this case, last day, (unsaid/baby) words, (baby/wannabe/silent) bucks)

I cannot make the way smooth for you Young lovers chiseling out your own path on this earth I’ve been squinting through this old keyhole With my blindest eye, been singing my wobbliest notes I feel windows open for dancing I smell the fresh bread of tomorrow punching higher All across the land toes are digging Into dirt, pebbles, grass, wood - every foot a new shape First son, new daughter, you make me glad There will be breath, there will be food, there will be cartwheels

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif