Forest of
conifers / bright
in the spring light
I wanted return
in the dark bar
and all the boy wanted was
a warm body
a fast art
without voice
I wanted return
to motherhood
and the thoughts one has
about the sea
when forging links
or pictures in barns
where the rafters hang
over phonemes
and the elusive Y
is equal
to the first inscription
of the father’s
event / I
inscribed no
turn into the light’s rose
hung suspended
from clarity
and the forest of A
is also the forest of last
which outlasts the city
whose Platonic mirrors
are broken by
mother with her fist
bringing glass
to bright flesh