New streaks of cloud
in her thinning brown

mane. Translucent wrinkles
etch & trickle across

the skinmap of her arms
& hands. The red maple

grows a foot & mid-sized
boulders tumble unpredictably

from rockface, becoming
scree. When the moon

glows like a soup
spoon Sarah lays down

her loneliness & summons
the lover slaughtered

in Viet Nam—Easter
Offensive, 1972. She craves

him, recalls the brush
of his barely-grown

beard on her neckbone. Signals
accumulate —an old-growth

poplar felled by lightning, giant
oak blown over the creek

by a Nor’easter. At the hour
of owlspeak—& just before

moonset—she’s certain
she can hear his bluesharp wailing.