Before the divine inventions of dawn

& grief, before all bare beginnings, there

is the body’s intention to sing.

The river wants to hear it

& so does the shadow abandoned

by its owner under the chestnut tree, waiting

with its palm extended in supplication

like the vagrant in Brueghel’s painting.

Here in the garden, time waits

like the slowest fire while autumn dies

in eddies of gin-clear amber.

Having planted my voice here in the garden

by the end of last spring—where I’ve prayed

for harvest but the soil remains

stubbornly fruitless, I can no longer sing

yet the night air parts before me of its own accord

like water cleaved by vibration

& through its sheer blue curtains

drifting apart, I can make out the snow geese

lifting the cold songs of their bodies—

unimpeded by hunger, nor by their dresses

of damp feathers—toward a light

we on earth no longer believe in.