If in the silence of the earliest
morning, before the sun cracks
across the sliding glass
of the wide Red River – If in that hour,
like a pocket, the cat quiet, curled
against the inner, ragged hem,
I laced on my running shoes, slipped
into my mud-caked rubber boots,
and took myself outside – If I lay on the lawn
under the wagging fronds of the wolf
willows, silver leaves snagged on the moon
we are waiting to fatten to full – If I did that –
Entered the tunnel of night,
fumbled inside its silence – If I did that,
pressed an ear against the earth’s cool
skin, opened to the muttering whisper
of wind. – If I did that –
What would I bring back?
From the iron silence.
From the night’s thick ink.
What would stain,
what truth would stick,
scrawled on sky.