Evenings, the moon, the leap of a bonfire

Evenings, the moon, the leap of a bonfire,
the smell of the pine tree, the loud train
and the rumbling tracks. I remember hair
and open mouths, the whispering intoxicated

wind, the wet river moving. She's poetry
without time, artistry without precedent,
state without government, without image.
Mornings, the sun, the stance of a tree,

the sound of the blue bird, the quiet light
and the sleeping word. I remember love
and the wild thirst, the soft white skin

with a salty taste. Sleeping, the stars,
the touch of love has awakened within
the instrument a song worthy of her.