I don’t want to believe it, either—
so I won’t, until the image clears.
Then there is only what there is
and I won’t have to believe anything
I can’t see, or in anything I can’t see.
Maybe belief is only what we practice
while waiting. I only know I’d kill anything
and hold it up to the sun to see you safe.
To the one missing her father inexplicably on a warm day after an ice storm
Mid-morning snow after a night of sleet.
Ice is melting off the roofs, descending
faster than flakes can fall, but they go
only their own speed, unconcerned
with making up the distance
Through a window, December night after rain
Negative space of roof and branches
are defined by the rising moon, crow-sized
negative image of the crow’s solid eye. Just the other
day, a young pileated woodpecker stood
right where the moon is tonight, as bright,
exactly as big, cartoonish, sounding like a monkey
afraid of the moon in the leafless branches
At every room in the house the sound of rain is tapping.
Like the echo of us trying to tap on the wall
to see if what is on the other side is listening.
How what’s outside us is there, there.
How it doesn’t want in. With an open window
it is still content with leaves on the ground.