I will see you in June, when chives sprout
over the mountain top. You will feed me berries
and we will peel foam from the underside
of mushrooms. You will then be
somewhere behind me running furiously. I will see
where my brother walked through the snow, the skull-
shaped hole in the drywall which you have pasted over.
I will see the too-white square screaming
through the white. You will not see it.
Ba, there are too many of you—
Lineage is the wet part of my mouth that refuses
to dry, the bloom that returns
forever perennial—And what of it to you? Do I loom
heavy as you to me?
And where is your poem?
And where have you put me?