Even in Wyoming

I track you.
Pressing like your spirit,
seeping, shapeless
but certain—like heat, gravity—
down every back road
I’ve walked to avoid you.

First: Scandinavian cities
in summer (midnight suns
meant less time dreaming you).
Now Wyoming’s vacancy
just to dwarf my own.

Fire Island

Because the I
becomes a we

poem without awakening

when the sea swallows us / whole—which will be / soon—i will learn to / swallow the whole sea.

The heart

The heart / splits open like / a frost flower—