Aspen leaves and blue spruce needles dissolve

in the dusk; looking through glass panes,

you suddenly see ceiling lights, a Bolivian

textile on a wall: when what’s behind becomes

what’s in front, you wince, draw circles,

and, deepening the graphite tracks on a page,

enact a noose; then a sliver of moon

in the sky’s a sickle; a twig fire crackles

at your feet; you whistle, ache, mar, step

out of a car to find bits of shattered glass

on asphalt resemble the ends of dreams;

as you flip bottles into a recycling bin,

each glass shatters: each dream collapses

into a pile of shards; as you toss the last

glass into the bin, you step out of another

transparent confine; and, as moonlight makes

a road on water, you have no word for

this moment that rides a wave stilling all waves.

¤