At the silent vigil

we brought our words folded up like dangerous umbrellas.

gone back to woods

all that’s left is location
location location

and the other foot, too, in this world, I am learning to love the dailyness of my walks.

when nearly everyone shared a knowledge of what the Bible said and an ignorance of what it meant.

is like a folded wing. A sleeping face is a dry riverbed with the faint sound of water somewhere below.

and its occupant insists on throwing stones.

I’d come in, sit down, and make myself uncomfortable.

and a face forgets how to go blank, trapped in a permanent facsimile.

the moss grows fat
on the milk of clouds

bare branches turn
green again

not because of its height in absolute terms but because of its distance. It stands apart—but also in the way. Its roots go deep.

and didn’t know it. I had a cellphone-shaped hole in my heart.