One of us has been recklessly modest

The low, ragged scent of tracking
As it wells up through the brainstem
The shoots and fruiting bodies

I dreamed of you while trampling the yarrow

Wet gravel drank up the sun and metabolized
A sheen beneath the sandhill cranes
That crack up through the long dusk

And wrench your name
From the reeds and wires
In the moonlit fires
A stone has settled in my throat

One of us has mulched ostentatious doubt

The watchdog hears the bell, and a baleful
Ringing memory of names
And the bodies they created

Parachute surveillance, a transfer of longing

The ringing of the world as the archive
Overflows the trough
The spores are fucking off

And the living word
Under fields of snow
In the waning glow
A flake of mica in my eye

I yelped your name while treading on the thistle

I gave away my position so I could
Yelp your name to the moonlight
Surrounded by your forces

The grievances of a specialist are special pleadings for the special

I sought the thistle when the yarrow
Had been trampled by someone
I'm afraid i've spaced the name

With the years on fire
From the moonlight's shame
And i'll rent your name
A calendar drawn with a charred twig

Vocal harmonies by Shelley Short