*

A stain that never heals — at the wound
this bowl taking on water, dead flowers
I lean — my lips so close

is already a flower
split down the middle
— with the same warm water

softly toward the water that can't leave
— behind this great stone my back
bending more when the sun is full

rolled tight — it's natural your grave
should be round, talking
always about a journey

or dragging back another stone
each night heavier and stars
are growing on the sun — maybe it is Spring.

Maybe this sky, fading, yellow, weakened
side to side so close
leans on your hand and the melting.