When I melt into the woods by the cottage
I hear you lapwing
riding the December moon
scraping out your speech against the air
lost on your path to the ocean
Sometimes I catch this sound
And steal it into my belly
swallow a filament of your flying grace
drink it down fast to bypass the story
that where I am is not
good enough, fast enough, strong enough
And the best of me knows
this is the way it must be;
beginning with anarchy
and a blue light
throwing itself around bronze trees
showing me how to spark and burn
following the shape of the night to the places
that make you lay down in the leaves
and forget that the timings are always wrong,
that you’re not where you are supposed to be
and despite it all
that you have it
in your bones to know
you are enough
