Today the sky is flat, a paint chip.
The leaves are mute, the air cannot 
be felt. Broad light hides shadows.
There is nothing here.

Yesterday has the laughter that 
you wear, a smirk, half-held. 
Honey, thyme, and salt of you, 
the low whine of moans exalt,
make fault lines shift, collapse, 
so that we can’t go back but

in your hands I trust the other 
side has every vibrant thing.