Back of Me, I Can’t See Those Yet to Come

Sun reaps like the wren,
Like land loves the land,
Like stones gleam, like grass.

Your palms creak cool leaves.
It’s a pile of mean
Debts, love, and sun, Ducks.

God is love face down
In warm mud like you,
But you’ve been your own

Sun, last life here, this
Way to hold a bird
In a poem, palmed, frail,

Piece by piece, as if
We all wrote our way,
Could write a way, back

To when it was sun,
Land, grass, leaves, mud, wren,
And you not yet then.