In your eyes, the familiar astonishment of seeing 
the mountains flattened, again, to shadow. 
I thought, I could move, could hold the black sky, 

the specs of violet, orange and pale yellow— 
the buildings rhythmically shouldering the night, 
and then the breeze moving through me, through with me.

In Spring, the trees release their steely grips 
despite themselves—the sun massages each joint 
until they loosen each bud and flower. And the birds 

shivering in the basins of water I leave out which used 
to remind me of the rocks I could never skip, but now 
only seem to resemble a return to flatness. Then you 

leaving and my stillness 

                    my listening for your return or mine:

          my own name; a different one