The shell boy hides his eyes in shallow sleep:
if she falls into her sadness like the wakened
who wanders a secret night he hopes to follow

gather medicine for anguish as he travels
so together they might soften what has been:
he should tear his hands collecting blades of corn

or find the root of a plant he’s never seen
or steal the tune a meadowlark has sung
and could these wash the silence from her rooms?

He hears her teeth write fists into her dreams
the sunken cry of someone down a well
her cautious motion wishing not to wake him

the sound of watching stars without control
the door pulled lightly closed. All’s still. He rises
and wears the darkest clothing that he owns

the softest shoes, he tars his face his hands
and follows the water fallen from her eyes
he chases her along the river’s margin.

She comes upon a clearing’s subtle lights
which do no honor to, nor humble men
the circle of the forest all around

stands voiceless but repeats if stirred by wind,
“To sun or earth, two faces has a leaf; ten thousand leaves
complete a single tree; a man is never sure among the trees.”

He cannot enter: there are no walls nor doors.
He misplaces the silver ribbon of her tears.
Alone amid birches, certain he has lost her.

He calls out with her name at every hour
the forest unconcerned that he is there
and wanders home at sunrise from his labor.

Just rising from their bed
she wonders where he’s been.

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