Twelfthmire, engorged by rising rivers
a lone tree burns and crackles

man is millwheel to man
is axle, man to revolve on

gathering, their resemblances herded
into a cloud-like shape

human is stream for human
to drift in, she persisted

unreached, as if sheltered by eyelids,
as sun touching an expanse of water

death, as love's perishment,
death, as a rift in a fabric of love

look, I brought something between us -
can we keep seedlings in it?

the language, too familiar; the barrier of habit
upheld by its shadow

trust is shaped
like a hook is bent it arches

the bleak morning in her hands;
turn it over

she invites as to a rainfall
I must be a basin, struggle to grasp

well out of the docks, bodies float to the surface
faces turned deepward

I would put you in the rain, Ilona
I would bare your scent firmly to the wind