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​KILL CROSSING
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Noon. Slag cuts a kiss through
the river, fissure a fox
could mistake for a bridge
wilting in the shimmer—

say on the other side a track
alive and shaking off
the metal summer smell curves
away, say it’s willing
to bring you into the blink
of emerald beetles, lull
of tamaracks whose leather
throats swell in soft surprise,
then deeper, denser, cooler,
where sweetflag and boneset
and wild rye fringe a hidden
bog, near noiseless but waiting,
intensely waiting, would

—high on the road, your eye
slices all this from an instant,
drops the question like any
empty, unrequited touch. Noon.
Even the red dog wavering.