I can see blood on the toe of his boot dark I don’t know
what mountains are monuments for but delete me whole

where the tree with snow and the moon a fruit
upon its branch is a skeleton together on saying

what’s already been said in winter, the doors
won’t stay closed, the bells come on wrong, why

are there bells to ring for no one forever ours,
fingers the wind wills move, holding no fruit but

quiet, a flower describes, no, but names
no, the garden grows thick with palms laid open

shaking no hands, claps no saving, tangling, fights, no
but a million fingers point and say sun, as the fingers

follow, the hands hunt, every name is written with
something like a fist around chaos has no sides only depth