You have arranged
a valley, a home for foxes.
I heard you, before dawn, putting your fingers down
across the length of the length of space
between us, where a valley now stands.
You have arrayed sharp fences,
to cut my fingers if I tried.
Only the field mice and owls now
cross the valley, the sharp divide,
and these are the last resorts
for which I gave my only eyes.
You have given away
the acacia, the sage, the pine that once
grew across your plains;
the homes for kinds
and other kinds, and wolves,
and black wolves.
Ah, did you hear the drums
of thunder, a day from where we let
our cool detente uproot the grasses?
Did you walk slowly,
barefoot through the promise of water?
I heard you, last night,
and wait to hear you again;
wait to hear your fingers moving
like rain on my hollow ribs.