From The Kenyon Review, New Series, Summer/Fall 1997, Vol. XIX, No. 3-4
The sky turned over sometime in the night.
While it happened I slept
under a quilt of geese. My throat
felt their beaks utter
a parched good-bye to the dulled gold
surfaces of summer.
This morning the aspen leaves lean toward me.
They are speaking to one another with an intimacy
I’ve never known.
When did I first hear the elk’s
resonant out of the ghost of dusk?
Who taught me to read the sky?
Twitch of a licked index finger.
A page turned in the dark.