�
rising up from nothing
�in the dark fields of ourselves.
�—Linda Hogan�
�
A child disappears
�in the rubble, light
�
from the desert moon
�a glittering scrap
�
of cloth from her mother’s
�dress held tight
�
as she ran. I bend
�to pick her up, to cradle
�
her small body shaken
�loose from the world.
�
In the dream other dreams
�shatter and the ground
�
fails to hold me, nothing
�but a blue glow at dusk
�
and stars falling
�in the fields, the moon
�
floating in black trees
�like a voice with no body.
�
�
