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.