Where each drop of blood
struck: lips in the dirt.

the bird falls, but
not killed by the copper bead,
only wounded and fluttering;

I’ve seen the candles you carried
going out, one by one,
in the darkness of deep woods.

At dawn, from the bedroom window: the elm tree’s shadow
white with frost. Brief, strange sight; when I returned
with coffee for my wife, the lawn was green again.

Open yourself up: today
that's no different than opening
a refrigerator door: large chunks