Heist

And I was stolen, too,

from my natural region

of darkness, with death

and a soft breeze above,

lifted out of accounts of summer 
into a transparency of water.

Ending is quicker plucked,

consciousness a cruel droop

over cut glass, a sharp fall

to the finish, not the warmth

of earth and its promise of years.

I had no words to shape the change.

Done, I can speak as souls

from the void streaked with life.

Cut and transferred, I return

on a river of fire, crimson and gold

flaming along a flicker of sparks tossed 
to drop, our bright being intact.

Older Bones

Pack-needle ribs, now 
a filigree skull: 
the pitted trowel,
your halt fingers.