After Writing 38 Poems

I want to write about lakes,

their cold spring-fed clarity

and deepening blues, want

to write about rivers running

fast but smooth by me,

to imagine lines flowing

from a place I’ve never been

or even known, at least not well.

But peace hasn’t caught up yet,

the words bees in my mouth,

a thousand suns needling sleep.

Everywhere in the house light slants

through glass, its knives hot on my skin.

Outside, the air funnels into silence,

filling its empty wind socks

and crying out beauty, misery.

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