Faceless, of one mind, we have come
to know the depth of our own blood—
not the luxurious blue of sirens nor
the lightning green of pond lilies, but brackish
as the spitting sea that will outlive us—ringing
the ruthless shadows as desire rings the flesh
of the earth. The heart is a long ladder, a mirrored
& sleeved thing. Our tongues have relished
the sweetness of this year’s magnificence, our faith
lush & razor-edged. Out of the clear calm,
a shock of roots—hands of a virtuoso climb
& astonish. Here, in the north, our beauty
besieges winter. Men tread the trees’ memory
brazenly as tyrants do, not knowing the woodland
is our birthright, where the sun is all mouths
& the river writes her elegy on our limbs
tirelessly with her ink of light. Watch us toss
& lurch as a leafy coliseum under the sky’s
metallic sheen, each honest self burrowing deep,
staking a claim on what is ours to inherit.