How a field of dead flowers and a field of red
poppies are both landscapes for forgetting. How fire
instead eats new—the world unworlded, burned
blank. How the crow and the arrow both know

flight: one for life, one for death. How the ground is
the dead and it lives toward the sky. How a hand
and a hill can both hold a fist against that bright
horizon. And how the sun, even when we don’t see

it, tells our story: stitched in the mountains, painted
on the prairies, glinted off the face of waves. Or dealt
from a deck two cards at a time to try to tell the future
about itself from this always present, the same dream

a dried petal or a charred thorn has when it wakes
up into new life.