Little Sun
Coming near to you
it takes so much
time the bark on trees
by the river already
beginning its rot nettles
and badger holes
comfortable in rural
quiet no thought
in the body finally
dormant cut my thigh
on barbed wire a sting
gone through canvas
scared the black steer
from the fence coming
near to you formless
little sun by the bird feeder
gathered a plastic can
of solvent in the stream bed
steel chimes against the house
and great wind already
a ridge of orange red
opening in the west
Song with Peacock
Redolent, riding a swallow into spring
The bird as emerald burl, belting
impoverishment of waiting for,
jewel upon jewel, a lawn doused with violet.
Where does the mind roam, wavering—
And what’s above curved like everything below.
A sentence untethers, locking in song, the mind goes
at the wind. Distillation.
What’s above as inconsolable.
Hibiscus flower, rooting, repeats us.
Wilt of budded everything
the lawn dashing, singled as language.
Rich drapery of inlet oaks, interrupted
Threes and threes the reddened bark the erotic sentence
open me carefully
Kind Song
Maybe two bodies
are like wild and shy animals
visible as a field of fallen
air on a clay mountain
like a ring of swept
wind a living organ
ascending the valley
in the tone of new silt
their porous sound as
their voice issues they
have no human memory
their organ of hearing
proceeding on such a path
as if one hums or
whistles and hears
the hollowing series
if one is like a very
shy wild animal who
utters the pronoun once
only whose face
is the visible
body written in script
rachel moritz
