You turn the book
over and over, caress
the cover as if
it were matted in the skin
of a lover.
Natalie dared not listen with her heart,
But one Wednesday evening
She leaned her head against
The pocket of the kitchen wall.
She hunted for new sounds
Like bells within a forest
Or a soft Aeolian wind.
Heaven must be stony
With burins
Marrow & cairns.
Bogs
A haymow
Once a year in autumn. Some rising, deep falling.
When we ask our Russian friend,
the hardship thieves sprout out of ground.
Our spying self sits up at night, frozen
in extremes, shivered with mercury,
pouring over pocketfuls of candlelight
bathed in a birthday wish. We have pinched
her Russian pain. We think we know, but
have not shared her fear like a gift.