something leans in the night and bends it	something 
reaches into the space but doesn’t 	quite		speak		

the sleeping

bees in their drowsy	the sleeping 
trees if they sleep, and down the road		my neighbor dreams

a new forest	 	one    two    three     four, 
now we tumble out the door   the sky

crackles and the dry ground thumps
like a drum and she pulls the long memory
of water 	         around and around and around 	

everything 	holding on—

those scraps I meant to dig up
and carry over  	to the other side    where it’s cooler	where something 
might grow 	again

tomorrow’s hummingbirds 		dipping 
down  		out of their other sky
to tip the scarlet bee balm 	the frilly 
lip	the small trumpets 
still pouring out 
their invisible invitations