like a face in the
mirror. like a face looking
back. but how
is that his look? how
are those his eyes
and cheeks and not a woman
bright under
vernal sun. she lies
by a crossroads. today
and tomorrow. come
far and far, and still far to
go before reaching
a peaceful river
and free
to sail away.
swallow panic?
wonder about ill-fated circumstance
when it’s more satisfying to paint
fields of bluebells?
we’re always angry with the
sky. but is that the sky’s fault?
and when longboats
sink into the sea,
when birds nest in smoke, is
that the time for us bow towards
the east with the grace
of eagles?
