In my last life there was the mud
and the fields and the scaffolding
of bones inside the body.
I was everywhere the grass
and everywhere the disappointment,
how little the moon is visible through
the clouds when we’re asleep,
how love comes to us like the crow
I saw this morning pecking
at the filmy eyes of a raccoon,
which I believe is the first memory
of being. I dreamed this once
when love lay its animal body
beside me, the prayerful smell
of the hour as perfect as the green
days slipping past outside the window.
I was everywhere the first breath,
but what of the primitive self
who sleeps at night beneath
the skull of moon that can’t be seen,
these clearly human trees waiting
come winter like stripped bone?
I have everywhere this life
like every other, have always
this snow falling past the windows
come twilight as gray soot,
the hardness of the mud
in winter, this walking out
across it and believing
I am somehow coming back.