by Kathryn Rantala
Behind
brown greatcoats,
we
when
walking
clasp
our own hands,
uneasy
where we surface in our skin,
uncomforted
by
the pardons on the bridge.
Fish
dance
on
spreading splash tails
alarming
with
their vertical joys.
Hands
behind,
oh,
please
refuse me
though
I carry what I can of lamp
in
clean, red palms,
pieces
slipping through
to
light the magic forests.
How
is love a sequence;
the
piercing through, bliss?
We
cannot, do not, arch, thump, whumpf, bleed,
oh,
please
refuse me deeper now.
The
trees, ferns and greens
dance
on spray
and
fish darken.
This
mossy, antlered life,
the
sharp young bolting things in coats,
held
back,
the
arrowed hearts within,
the
wild wounded wood
that
sings us sad without.