Hard to tell the birds from their voices
in the darkening field where hemoglobin
clouds drift low to the earth, bleeding
along their underbellies, lungless in summer.
What makes a geography if not memory
and mud? We try to decipher the black
wings rumoring in the distance. We imagine
this is the first thought or dream, the grass with
its manifold hands reaching out, the surgeon
of twilight cutting into the torso of day,
spreading the ribs to expose the original body.
Here is the first gesture: our deadhead
of moon drifting windswept as a dandelion.