Out of yellow brain, out
of ear, through the wheat
spear in the eye, at

least the window, over
cities, ranges,
ocean, but

I don’t mean
a letting go
of some circus

maximus,
a brutal
parent, disease.

I mean more
than consuming
with blue teeth

of flame,
or even love, more a felt
relinquishing,

as when air gives in
to bird
or the black

trunk of oak caves
to encroaching moss
or the swan slips

a valley of light
beneath its beak,
as the river tears

its skin
to accept a stray branch.
I feel that way

when I release me
to worlds
I can’t under-

stand, and
I stand, wanting
air in my blood

and its nostalgia,
Latin
for our pain.