Elegy for What Has Come to Pass

The birds had flown away with the last
of the breadcrumbs on the trail.
Only the moon silvered itself
as if it were never lost.

Through the fields, one clear
thread of water that came from the river,
that came from an ocean whose skirts
were pinned all around to countries
claiming possession.

All night I practiced calling back
to the voices in the woods.
I was a child but almost
no longer a child.

I felt
the spaces inside me shifting.
I knew not to hold out
a bony finger through the blinds;
I trusted

the smell of salt
that carried through the air
more than the heavy sugar
dripping from the veins of trees.

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