say you believe in the geese lifting off from the black glass
of the lake, the black spruce cathedrals, the octaves of tree rings
like fingerprints clouding the windows. the evergreen forest:
veiled with fog. one palm on hallowed bark, your other hand
holding the gray silt of the sky. not a single plume of smoke
not a single cigarette. petrichor kissing the pinecones, rain

spilling across the windshield in sheets. say you love the rain,
the empty quiet. the way the droplets bead & fall on the glass
even when your lungs feel hollow. say you don’t think about smoke
& mirrors. instead: the icy water, your reflection rippling in rings,
the stones skipping like the pulse where your wrist meets your hand.
instead: the snow dusting the mountains & the spruce in the forest,

the alpine strawberries like rubies studded with seeds. say the forest
soil is lush under your feet, & say it again. say you want it to rain,
say you’re alone as choice, not consequence, not sleight of hand.
not how you closed your eyes behind the wheel & waited for the glass
to shard & shatter, the oncoming headlights pooling in golden rings
in your eyes. the cigarette an ember between your lips, trailing smoke

out the open window. now there’s only bonfires, only wood smoke
that apricates in your throat, swallowed by the dew of the forest.
the silver glints of stars strewn across the black sky, the silver rings
buried in fertile dirt. the ghosts of wind whistling in the lush rain.
nowadays, you trace your empty promises onto breath-fogged glass
& watch them disappear like the cold current through your hand,

like the frost riming the pinecones & your reflection. there’s no hand
to hold or hold you back. the gorge gapes: a mouth filled with smoke
& you hear the echo of your pulse as much as you feel it, like a glass
bead dropped into rippling water, a tree falling silent in the forest.
the tree falling & the hallowed chord progression of the icy rain
on your shoulders, the thud of your footsteps engraving rings

in the soil, erasing the gray silt blossoming from your throat in rings.
say you have something to be faithful to: the way your open hand
moves from your wrist, the outline of your open mouth in the rain.
the filled hollow of your throat, the cathedral emptied of smoke.
say you can see it: the placid lake, the windborne geese, the forest
for the spruce trees. & there, the light, sifting through the broken glass.