Because of the reckless woods
what follows doesn't make the bird call back.
What in private image remains unknown
to even oneself.
Guadalupe hated the north because it was
too blanco and she spoke little English.
Her children and their children a kind of muteness
the weeds could retract.
Each small thing that vanishes
takes up more space.
The tops of the pines point
toward nothing. The mirror of non-identity
where shortfall is to fury as place
is to self-silence.
