Insomnia II: Red Evening

she shakes fire from her hair
like lice onto the loam of forest,
drops that sear the seer’s air

as though a dry canvas,
as though shadows wanted to crackle,
as though it all needed
to burn

here, in forest, all sound emerges
from the smoke off yearning leaves,
from the spark of steaming wings

and our homes
of wildwood, of deadwood,
wear the glass of stars
whose rivers have voyaged on dust
a billion years to us

as we sit with her through thin windows,
watching her open our eyes.


(c) J. Celan Smith