Untidal

I am afraid but very
much like a river
of newspaper in a dream;
the drip you hear when
it rains may be inside,
holding on to the sliver
of moon while driving;
spring crocus not cold
waiting on the first ladybug
to explain away death,
this is very normal, a tree
with the legs of my mother,
crossed, ancient. I kiss them.

Wondering how much time
the mailpeople have left, the mall
person, the snail person licking
stamps. Fear is trust of death,
putting your hand in its watery
paw. Wild dogs run along the river
where your dad floated, the deer,
but following is too abstract
an idea. It’s just moonlight
being just because something
above us is alone forever.