Beth Roberts
On a day fresh as a haircut
I left the family for the field.
I looked hard for the body.

Where drifts of light leaned
into pockets of rot, of not, in fact,
it was best. There were word

in the woods: shiver   for needles,
veinous   for moss, matter
for the hour or the forest floor.

Whether they were well spent
depends on their worth. But
while ether disentangled

the antlers and the roots, there
was one note. With a hint
of meaning, being bent.

In the voice of a bird. One
clean run through to the night,
and it sounded like   new.

It sounded like   you.
I found the body, looking,
and it cost too much.