She’s fog thickening across a prairie
in early March. Residue of the last
shoulder season in muted gold
and rust catches her on alls sides.

She’s full-bleed
escaping from the edge
of another backstory she inherited
about them—doesn’t trust.

She’s fever dreaming
her way into theirs.

She’s filing away images
in a drawer made of ice.
She’s fall down sober
building a birch forest

with reams of peeled paper
bark found stacked
in the flooded wine cellar
(inheritance suspect).

She’s feigning interest
in overnight snow. Fast-talking
the morning away
to get to them first.

Freight train rolling
across the tracks hidden
on albums recorded
under a leaky roof.

She’s fire engine not
red furious with herself
for never learning why
they refuse to leave.

She’s freehand sketching
mist into the picture
further more than farther
from the truth

trail between the acts
of barred owls before dawn.

She’s fracture zone fragile
beneath that concrete skin.
Floor sprung leaping off bluffs
into the scene where she’s phoenix

rising from the ashes
of all those stories
about the unrequited she’s
forgotten. She’s (so) free by now.

If only she would eat insects.
If the only road open knows things.
If only she would prompt the gentleman
ladybug to unfold its wings at civil twilight.

If the only night they can meet
evaporates in the fog. If only she would
be a lady and never unfold
rivers or rain in broad daylight.

If the only leg left
is crushed into a poultice.
If only she would fly
with the best of them.

If the only sky she knows
refuses to laugh at the moon’s jokes.
If only she would ask
Claude instead. If the only song

she sings travels abroad.
If the only loner left would join her
among the sea shells
cosmos seedlings.

She’s been creating desire
paths her whole life. No,

she’s been taking
the ones trampled

into being

by foxes before her. No, desire
paths have created her.

No, they’ve taken her
in the middle of the night

before she can suck all the brack
from the marsh.

No sextant to guide her
across the waves, or song

played on repeat to serenade her
in reverse—to crash away

from the rocks covered in graffiti
and muddy footprints.

The stars had nothing to do
with it. Finally, she sees

no wrong turns.
And she’s getting

dangerously close

to calling this little city
built over the scars of a falls

creek tow path home. No machine
would make such a choice.

You drift through tunnels
as I build my own buckeye tree
in the widening light.

You drift through tunnels—
they do not explode,
and still you fear the offing.

You drift through tunnels
as the forest bears witness to the wind
below an afternoon moon.

I build my own buckeye tree
long before you begin to fear
the offing below an afternoon moon.

Together, we begin to build more
buckeye trees—they do not explode. No,
the forest stands to bear witness

to the wind. In the widening light,
you and I know we will explode
below an afternoon moon.

The widening light captures all fear
in the offing as it coaxes the forest
to bear witness to our winding down.

We’re printing whistles.
I’m printing wings—
not for me this time.

We’re printing instructions
on how to resist peacefully &
exercise our rights.

We’re printing ice blankets
to cover our streets
they are invading.

I’m not printing instructions
on how to walk like a penguin—
if you know, you know.

We’re not printing
or saying
his name out loud.

I’m printing courage
with biodegradable nuisance
algae and recycled dreams

of snow sculptures
that dance and make noise
all night long.

I’m printing a waddle of penguins
and a prickle of hedgehogs—
because I can.

We’re printing a Midwestern city
of immigrants
to love.

I’m printing 3D love
letters to all of you—
you know who you are.

We’re printing the pink light at dawn,
amber spilling over the city
at civil (disobedience) twilight.

They’re printing NOTHING
because they don’t know how—
so utterly untrained.

We’re printing a new beginning
with wood chips and spit
from each of our 10,000

lakes and

that big ole’ river

of the falls.

lace a lake, stitch a street, transcribe a tree, precrease a prairie, compress a cove, sacrifice a sandbar, mobilize a mountain, bleed a bluff, calm a cave, tighten a tide, validate a valley, dub a dune, channel a channel, weave a wetland, idle an island, and, yes, Emily, I know “you cannot fold a flood—and put it in a drawer.”

Ice shoulders wear bad
understatements and blue
bark. The candlelight vigil

in the forest.

The steady doorknob milks
lightning bolts. In winter,
the candlelight vigil

in the forest.

Another purple motivation
smokes the jokes mournfully.
In winter, the candlelight vigil

in the forest

reveals. Flat lullabies
drive thirsty wanderlust. In winter,
the candlelight vigil

in the forest

reveals

our

own

haunting.

As the temperamental moon squares
mischievous Mercury
and the swift-orbiting

planet enters your first house
(of self-identity), you will crave
the freedom

to fly.

I dust off my feathers,
do 8 sets of 12 reps
of lateral wing exercises

on each side,
check the weather app
for wind conditions.

Beware the flames
of your own arrow, Sag.
The duel could be lethal.

Before I finish
preparing for flight,

I release

my guardian angel
from the cedar
closet in the attic,

my duende
from the cage
beneath the cellar stairs.

While I search
for the perfect perch
for take-off,

they step into the alley,
bump fists, remove gloves,
here we go.

She could not break through
the berm barricading the flow
of his thoughts. He silently searches

for her along the eroding bluff
through a tidal marsh beyond
the cove to the lagoon. Hiding

in plain sight in the diminished
dunes, she fears he will never find
her, or say what she needs to hear

(or anything at all). The spit

where they met that moonless
August night has washed away.
What remains cannot be reached

without a wetsuit, mask,
fins, air tank, handful
of worry stones. If only

her transition to shrunken island
with aeolian ripples
were not so complete,

his voice not swallowed whole
by a tidal bore. If only,
the rocky beach.

You keep ignoring the Post-it note
telling you to defrost the freezer.

The sight of the hardened
dollop of toothpaste

on the hardwood floor in the hall
is a comfort:

Out with it, damned
and captive white spot.

Your habit of meandering
from room to room,

rocking back and forth,
is another. No light shines

from the lamp you forget
to plug in again.

Stray blueberries roll beneath
the fridge, never to be retrieved.

You can’t recall where
you got that tiny notebook—

the one with mostly illegible
scribblings in your handwriting

on torn and crumpled pages,
discovered weeks later

under The Complete Works
of Emily Dickinson.

What do you mean by “fire
up the culture of keep going?”

It’s a comfort to give yourself
permission to release the need

to remember anything.
You have nursed the wounded

owl long enough. Let it fly.
You say you don’t keep everything.

Shelves of blank books filled
with contained chaos exist

to call you are a liar.

Still so many messages
left to thaw.