Centennial Valley, 2022

Here, the horizon in three broad brushstrokes—
lowlands goldenrod-green, dry hills, a mute blue sky.
If I walked into it,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI’d find every baroque
detail of the milk vetch & the sandhills’ wild rye,

& where a shriek & murmur interlace,
xxxxxif I listen, the sky isn’t mute at all,
my mind deaf to the names of each birdcall.

It’s been seven years since I saw your face
outside of a photograph, & now I need

the parts you couldn’t take—
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxfalse teeth,
scrawled signature, a robin painted on a jade
egg—to call you into clearer relief.

I didn’t bring back sage, or the feather a bird
left as it lifted a cry the whole valley heard.