city

this place throws off beauty with a toss of its hand

through all the soft, sweet nights--I am compelled to stand

the trees slice, languid, into the sky

in the leaves, a welter of birds state their names, loudly

and so, I must grip my own name tight to me

and not look where the roads lead across the ruffled land

when the year closes in on itself again

and the wind announces itself, burring

and grinds its teeth on the skin

when the moon turns sharp

and the stars go reeling

I will walk along the edge of winter,

all the way out to the hills

I will hold my skull hard

and walk smooth and steady

--and beyond them

beating my name on my bones

when I come to where

the ferns wave sharply on the ridges

and the rain can't bear to bide

and the lights fill the slopes

with warmer stars

on the edge of the valley

with night prickling on my neck

the reeds rustling in the wind

I will lay down my name

in the grit

I will put down my face

I will cut my tendons free

of the bonds that bound them so tightly

with all the city heedless below me

I will kneel down and be glad