fact there was no meadow.
In fact the river had washed away the grass, the black-eyed Susans,
my leg below the knee.
I had sent half of me into that water, and now the gone edge
fevered for its brother.
My leg untethered itself, then my shoulder, my lung.
Was it wind or water that rushed over my tongue?
we
had
a taste for
error
and
frail boats
o ye
brave sailors in
an
unexplored
sky.
we
strayed from home
and
failed utterly
on
the shores of space
THE MEADOW, THE LAKE
The meadow is a lake.
The lake is 400 degrees.
The meadow smells like steam,
tastes like heat, feels like ash beneath our feet.
Its wind rings a brass bell in our ears.
On Mars are meadows of magnesium soil
that slope slowly upward until they reach the highest point
in the solar system.
This meadow is not a lake, but an ocean.
Birds fly across it for so long they fall
like ripe fruit onto its face.
Their smallness puts large holes in
the sails of our breath,
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