for Trent Johnson

you called your Eden
desert, immutable wayplace
of God, pulsing, still.

I called, newly
staked, and dusted your ear, pressed
together the hum.

the tree’s square hands
punctured our shine’s reddening cracks,
its loud birth swallowed

the overfolded
map whole in temporary
green, first bush, dune, hill.

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This poem is part of a book-length elegy I wrote (primarily comprised of haiku/haibun) on the death of my sweetheart.