If there is a place for bodies to be safe,

in the woods, in the clearing, in the garden

pulling weeds, wild strawberries, never an end

to the vines, the wading in pokeweed,

and one day meeting forest. In shade, mimosa, pink soft

and spackled, in the river. Can you leave your body? You cannot.

You are alone. Are you alone? Are you finally safe?

Field blue coneflowers, elusive pastoral, even in the notebooks

you keep, unsafe. In your blue kitchen, in your sunny bed, still, still,

is there a place? Drift to the traffic of minnows and bees.

Street by street, tree trunks of bodies root, unroot.

Bless your budding, you are not safe in yellow sun,

parking lot, single yellow flower. You are or are not alone.

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