Breathe in the index of trees 
their leaves, their bark, their rings.
We are in wreathes of flesh and blood and bones 
and a swirl of images, not so much a movie reel 
of where we've been more like the weave 
of a blanket we know well 
we once touched and know its smell 
the way cypress perfumes the air 
soldiers of them releasing their skin 
in shreds. A mother knows the scent 
of her child's head, the way we know 
where we were and can have it back 
in a flutter, reach in for a wisp, a single 
brushstroke of being 
in the front seat of the station wagon 
between two parents, your siblings in the back 
and forgotten because you are 
the only kid in the world 
barreling down some dark 
corridor of highway.
                        

A barren place to plant a flag. 
How there is often just one glove,
one reason, one night,
and no real job for a poet. 
There's no explaining 
the gravitational pull 
besides the rise of tides 
and release of blood.  
I need to orbit beyond 
what feels real to find other lands 
and land on something new 
to understand the old— 
so much to uncover
and dust off and label.