Linda Dove


What words form through the open gate,
which we take at face value. Trails meant

for walking. It is easy to pitch a body forward
and think of wool stars, crushed underfoot,

the smell of the present. To believe
as we move that we are not moving

elsewhere, to feel the order of words exists
in us only. We disregard branches that beckon

back, that dissolve in a foregone distance.
We ignore what the hunters know better

than most: flowers open then shut.
At the end of each branch, a terminal bud.