Bluest

All those years seeking resplendence,

how deceived my longing has been.

Memories muscled as otters.

Where the center is

always discernible, I am reminded

courage is billions of years earlier than we are—

and loss is held like a rudder.

Little deer: imagine

there is a space

to forgive ourselves. Imagine

the slow intimate unknitting of Earth, the sky

in its steam and pleasure.

How will I greet you when I am back,

the spectrum not yet diminished in me?