I remember the sickness in the fields. the hearses
leaving the churchyard as a flock of crows. bluebells|
bruised at the river where the deer’s carcass glows into a bee hive.
in a dream we would walk the bird-shaped City,
among the catacombs, train stations, and emerald thieves.
the shadows of whales passing over the walls.
at the sound of a bell, the stations fill with the phantoms of travelers.
the trains echo like terrible metallic birds. I reach into my pocket
and find no other ticket but your old photograph,
tattered and rain-scratched.
you take my hand. you speak of what the fields had murmured
to you every dusk. the hysteria of autumn orchards where his hands
scattered you like seed.
I touch your fingers to know the sorrow of birds.
at dawn fog cottons the last stars over the churchyard.
I come to the river, gathering the bluebells in my dress.
I lay my body against the deer and weep.