Others can not see
the blank airspace of crows higher than the hill
the park convulsing its green    convulsing
the womb-wall muscle    giving birth
to spring cried out by the petals in their expanse
The map of your palm holds all of the stories
weaves slantwise into this street    says nothing
but has changed    the combination lock of the trees
spins back one past year    and spins again
and all the birdsong crushed to death flips back into the branches
water indulges its own fantasies    the loneliness of all things
nailed by a hook in human form
Others can not see    under the hammering sun
you walk unknowing into this afternoon
following a guidebook of darkness