One

The celestial position
of organs has emerged.

I wait like snowdrifts
for those star-puckered lips

to belt my face into Orion.

I let the wind feel me
out like a needle on a record.

A calligraphic text is detectable
in the bone-white

resurrection of matter.

I move in pelagic cyclones
from days to decades.

I leap through conifers
with the urge of a primate;

blood-moon eyes rattle

like mummies then disappear
into the mountains with the quickness

of night.
The valley unfolds.

I am alone in this village.