July 16th

The first veil falls much faster than the last.

Sometimes the threshold is enough.

Sometimes I want to make my home on the stone.

On the lee side of the stone, past the pillars,

things become too large for measure.

I live in Georgia now and the cicadas

mark the hours in the evening.

I never see them,

I only hear them calling.

Each evening, you hand me a bouquet

of gilded pine branches caught in the airy

places between the light and the ground.

I accept.