Losing You

Another summer gone,

the hills burned to burdock

and thistle, I hold you

a moment in the cup

of my voice,

you flutter

in the frail cave of the finch,

you lean to speak

in my ear

and the first rains blow

you away.

Dusk is a burning

of the sun.

West of Chowchilla

The Lost Continent of Butterflies

streams across the freeway.

Radiators crusted,

windshields smeared with gold

and you come on

rising into the moons

of headlights.

My brother is always a small bear,

cleaning his paws,

Iam a leopard

running through snow,

you are the face of an egg

collapsing sideways.

Now the last olive falls

gripping its seed

a black stone among stones

and you are lost.

In a white dress

my little girl goes to the window.

She is unborn,

she is the thin flame

of a candle,

she is her mother

singing a song.

Her words frost

the mirror of the night,

a huge wind waits

at the back of her breath.