We were only near each other
so we took a class
on trees,
their dear nocturne of needles,
how they pallbearer up the hills,
how they tall into crashing.
When does it weigh too much,
the many and’s, the breathing,
the fear
of knees & ordinary years
in the kitchen?
Light consoles the garden gate.
We didn’t take a class on trees.
There’s no such thing
but the end loves all beginnings.
A truck of mirrors fails to clear
the low bridge
& one blackbird
becomes buckshot over my frozen
question.
No the class was on needles:
may you become your eyes
was the lesson.
We pulled over to see
the tragedy of glass
& we were suddenly seers.
The driver wasn’t hurt
but was yelling fuck me!
at the untouched lake.
A breeze steered us
& we walked among the triangles
of sky, the largest organ
of the earth. There were millions of us
up there looking down into ourselves.
Bill Neumire’s first collection, Estrus, was a semi-finalist for the 42 Miles Press Award. His recent poems appear in Harvard Review Online and Beloit Poetry Journal.