At the bottom of a big hill in the middle of an eclipse
long and loud birds forget which way is down and up
they go forever (for now) into a flat, starless fantasy.

In April in May in Ohio (in capital letters), butterflies
rehearse clumsy renditions of previous futures. Implying:
good morning from the other side—and don't worry!

We have been listening to you sing in the shower.
Your voice is feedback fed back to supernovas.
Your hands are sailboats. It’s not a debate.

I am the absolute worst and best at seeing refractions of
me and you in moving water / spoons / eyes / yellow
green red grass / shiny machines trimming egregious willow limbs /

the forest floor (like a former self) never feeling
unstoppably alone ever again. I literally live
inside my favorite songs. The walls, the windows. What

else?