by Matt W. Miller

Tell me the pocketknife
that was left over from a dream.

Tell me about black bread,
pork and beans, stains

of cigarettes on your heavy
mesh jersey.  Tell me

the winter was anomaly,
tell me moss and willow.

Hip deep in the brook,
stones are eggs you tell me

this and then we lean
into the dragon of play.

Shadows tell me
where catfish crawl.  Jump

you tell me by the mud
where the wasp star digs.

Tell me how to whittle
this stick into what shape

I want.  Tell me there are coals
left for your lungs.

The falls are too close,
tell me louder the grass

has not grown over
your brown earth of eyes.

Tell me out of the tunnels.
Tell me the sun,

the wax.  Tell me again
about the water.