Desire Path: Near Equinox

Blame Jupiter, its brightest moons.

Blame the scapular ache, a cry

I store in my wing—where my wing

would be. No reason, of course,

for blame but: blame the mask

I buzz. I’ve been at myself,

fingers pruned and smelling

of lemon, of sweet moss,

late twilight and banked ember.

I stoke my own tinder, make fire

of what’s left. Don’t call it dream

but prophecy: an astronomer’s

eye taking time for distance.

Each constellation a bird drawn

by an amateur: seagull. Seagull.

A cry that carries over the water.

Oh, I whisper your name

when I’m close. Look, I say, look.

I become the shortest distance

between two points: seagull,

seagull, horizon. I misspoke,

earlier, said fire instead of fountain,

drought instead of deluge. Once,

I was a mask, made a mess

of your face. Would do it again,

be worn, but for a distance so great

it becomes time. How long before

a gull arrives in the desert, parched,

aching, blown off course? Oh,

it was meant for sea, would settle

for river, as you were meant for me

though we settle for time, for time,

soon its wake, soon collapse. Look,

I say into your mouth, your ear,

not near but soon. I fill the room,

a cloud scudding the moon, fingers

glinting in a light of my own making.