We were only near each other
so we took a class
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,
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
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.