If there is wreck in me, let it be
             anchor and all. O you beautiful ones

with your jackal call. The steel trap of you
             in your meadow starred with flowers. You honey-

throated ghosts. Ripples in the windless hours.
             My Dead are waiting at the bottom.

Sing the bees free of me that I may listen. Sing
             the wound clean out of the skin. I come to you

lying down in my petal-thin excuses—
             you already know my name. Sing me soft-

boned. Sing me home. You, with the map
             of the unknown carved in your palms. Untie me

from grief’s tall mast. See how it’s made
             a gully of me. O you gods of relief, let the water in.