FIVE POEMS

Nocturna

How slow is all of this dying? Across the county line
a fossil in the making, off-road exhaling last light
in nightmud. A small cat in a steel trap. Pendulous

sparrows preen. Holding on for the last bluedark night
we ate fruited scabs off each other’s mouths. Howling
calls out its own name. Who could it be for? A pale stray

soul wandered into me as it wandered into you; we warmed
it by ourselves. We could not undo the latches of
what had come before. So, we made it another day rot,

refracting whatfrom whose curl we understand fists: we know the deadare actually yellow sere of stars. What does it take