We are forever in alterations
and still with our prayers
like the birdsong swirling
in spring snowtracks.
So too that requiem
paces out the hollow
feeling between the folds
of unfolding, asking
how do you describe a gambler’s luck?
Like a doe with a faun, a small unscarred locket,
the discovery of a sanctuary
in an unmarked field,
a leather mask grown wet with moss,
two hands holding child, tasting dirt in the wine
saturated earth at sunset, grass tips red.