next time I think you and I will be inside the building when it goes up

like inside a bell where the threat of its sound keeps you from growing out

the walls make sure you don’t join it

instead now we drive away toward the stables where the maria are asleep, cold, walking

along the peninsula in a dream there’s a field where we crashed

and the blood from your palm on the bathroom sink

I waited in the woods under some immeasurable hour that recurred at different levels of

brightness

where the pipes stood in the outline of what used to be the house

and rang sometimes in the wind

moving through the bell

there is a new constellation because we changed our names

return to me my eye, under it, at the spot

where you usually spot the doe

I don’t see the wolf, either, just

the mountain and the snow pulled tight

across the hollow where the ribs stop holding nothing

the horse or the bell’s

breaking off a geranium leaf, something indiscreet in the scent