Out there, the dead don’t stand a salt white chance.
My ears instinct inwardly, a cat’s tail curled at damp ground.
There are lilies and there are peonies, but there are never roads returned.
The deer have jumped the fence, the faded white fence around my precipice.
If you were to cross the sidewalk, there would be sprays of eglantine.
Sweetbrier is another name—the way our toes touch silk.
Have you never thistled or cobalted across a meadow?
It’s the only way to remain of one peace while the world seethes.
Tell me, where is an un-ruined place where we are wanted?