Along the streambed with its deep blue spot,
russet trees open up like a door
into a room where clouds and the moon
hang on the wall. Meanwhile, near Tucson,
a lone jaguar. Hunt, eat, sleep. Roam.
That nagging yearning. How you must have felt
transformed, the last of your kind at the end.







a stack of paper
not so robust but
under your hand like
a tight sheet on a
hotel bed, somewhere
you can go into
and close the door,
an envelope,
letters you don’t send,
the guardian of words
and wishing, the end
of all you’ve said