The geese fly by
at the angle my heart leans,
the love that didn’t make it
different enough, the love
I have to close my eyes to see.
The sky scrubbed clean by
yesterday’s rain, wet earth and
the ghosts of petrichor frame
these wild gray givens—
wings and trees and the runaway
day trailing vapor,
the thinking spread thin,
lore and pain and all the grievances
gathered up in the husk
flitting through the imagery,
coloring sight on the inside as
the words swarm and stick.
Migration, mitigation, the slow
sweet thrill of your approach
invisible on the outside,
eyes wide to everything
that remains to be seen.