It was the bear’s face, not the wolf’s,
that resembled yours in sleep; down
under the large paw, denned in dreams
of certain unity and salmon—
xxxxxxxso in a patch of late snow
xxxxxxxmy hand melted
xxxxxxxfor what can’t be
half a turn now, this planet without
beating heart. His face my scotoma,
the only constellation.
xxxxxxxI want the sky
xxxxxxxto be the ceiling
xxxxxxxthat caught you rising.
Mourning doves. Chickadees. Coyote howls.
Say nothing, please, I ask the owls. I cannot bear it.
In the far west
xxxxxxxrestless mountains search:
xxxxxxxsee how jagged and lean,
xxxxxxxwhat chasms open dusklight
with fingernail slivered moons
spilling into fjords. Under the black,
sure and fast, an orca brings you home.