My life is waiting to begin. Our trees
have long stopped growing, though the rain returns
in thunder
endlessly. It's said some fish
have been transported, to another realm-
I wait such transportation. My last love
seems here, but absent. Restless birds convene.
But things are coming out, or taken in,
or being made: our cycles endlessly
repeat. I live by borrowing. This
debt's
unpaid, and growing. Others circle in,
but this is not the
worst thing could have been:
contracts are signed, most notably with her.
Those gathered birds will wing down latitudes.
Her presence still renews my journeying.
And red against the rusted iron, fish
surface to feed again. An inch
of rain
prepares our leaves for gold, which will resume
when debts start going
down, and we begin.
