I fall asleep in wet grass,

above the rocks

of someone else’s country

and wake at dusk.

Leaves falling. Light falling.

Earth wanting

everything back. Everything

coming to an end.

Exploding heads

of dandelions, snowing up

into wind

and spreading beneath

the late bent shadows

of a flamed elm. All afternoon

the elm has been tracking

time, moving

and curving, between orbs

of light

that shatter into a million

little stars

and soften the distance

between then

and now. I feel nothing

but this

wind, wind

with her heart for weather—

wind that knows

what it means to be cold

for a long time.

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