Rain-pregnant, the unpierced palms
of maples cup halos,
little light tricks of sun
language deems halos.
Those nibbled by worms, moths,
dribble water down upon my forehead,
what my language names restoration.
We’re just outside Vienna in the hills,
christened hills because nearby
there are higher mountains.
We’re speaking of the future
to differentiate it from the past
and our hands are tightly locked
because the earth is slipping away.
-previously published by White Whale Review