Yes it goes darker.
Beneath the glacier
where I bury unborn children
still sleeping, stuffed rabbits and bears
clutched between elbows and limbs.
Their immutable question,
Will you be here tomorrow?
Blackberries, oak moss, bluegills.
I would not forsake you for these.
But to know the constellation
across your back – for that
I wander prairies
singing your praise -
I carry wandering planets
to the kitchen table,
to feed you foreign words.
Kal-lee-mara for sunrise
on old marble near the Aegean,
Eff-are-east-o for another day
I creep closer to you,
restless for green grass.
I spend centuries longing
for Saturn, clean water
haylofts filled with light.
They will not know their names.
I forgive you.
Let them sleep.
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