These are notes to lightning in my bedroom.

    A star forged from linen¹ thread and patches.

    Purple， yellow， red like diamond suckers， children

    of the star gleam on sweaty nights. The quilt unfolds

    against sheets， moving， warm clouds of Chinook.

    It covers my cuts， my red birch clusters under pine.

    Under it your mouth begins a legend，

    and wide as the plain， I hope Wisconsin marshes²

    promise your caress³. The candle locks

    us in forest smells， your cheek tattered⁴

    by shadow. Sweetened by wings， my mothlike heart

    flies nightly among geraniums.

    We know of land that looks lonely，

    but isn't， of beef with hides of velveteen，

    of sorrow， an eddy⁵ in blood.

    Star quilt， sewn from dawn light by fingers

    of flint， take away those touches

    meant for noisier skins，

    annoint us with grass and twilight⁶ air，

    so we may embrace， two bitter roots

    pushing back into the dust.