i watch you watch the news, that a body/ prepared for burial is measured at the elbows, and/ worry.
tell me the stars are white wood ash, scattered
embers around a pit. when late august swells, burn
wisps of mogusa on a needle and anoint the usual
sites of high tension: both wrists, shin muscles,
breakfast, walnut knees, september. even sugared
berries left out contract like a wound under its
trail of charred asterisks. supercut persimmons,
a pair, weighing their end of string to dry.
i watch you watch the news, that a body
prepared for burial is measured at the elbows, and
worry. couldn’t we have foraged a feast of chickweed,
dandelions, field garlic, celadon eggs to spread across loam,
gathered enough tears to boil chestnuts? with your cheek
pressed hot, call out any other name but lover. knock
and the grave, should expand.