a white squirrel, a birch tree. you of lips,
of snow adrift in streetlights. all the pasts
that recreate a lifetime but you

*

whispered. stark, the maple limbs quivered
as if to say, too, of white: it’s spectral,
the way your finger hushes my lips

*

and you to me of a dull ax. all the lifetimes
that recreate a past. the tall grasses and ditches,
wheels collected to collapse

*

being unbodied, come, settle
between your high and low, your lap,
a manic love to fold my wasted bones upon

*

find nothing. there are whistles so pitched
to be white. an open mouth in winter,
a goat is, as I to you, the air