spring is here and the green grass
draws deer down to the dawn highway,
does and antlered stags all alike
in Death, bones scattered as
a graveled tracery of clouds

while overhead on warm wide wings
between white ribs a dozen hot hearts
spiral
spiral
spiral

down

over black branches that pink
under sunlight fingers

and maybe i’ll never tell you that
i love you,
maybe i’ll die with the words
on my tongue
and let a vulture carry them

up.