The field has eyes, the woods have ears,
I will see, be silent, and hear.
And what spoor have you followed
when you went hunting in the night?
this Kunstkammer’s relics of the wild
reassemble your eye’s blue pursuit
of the gazelle’s femur. Here, a bone
splinter resumes her flight in air.
The shaft you let loose lodged into her
left shoulder blade. The bright ribbon
of her blood seeped into black, wet leaves.
Where she fell, your breath hot on her nape,
you found feathers. A storm had thundered
through the trees. And you, innocenced
into wonder, gathered bounty of flesh,
bones, quill by shining quill, home.
There’s no figuring this wilderness
in us, lost in the summer thunderstorm
in the red eyes of a great she-wolf.
Earless woods, no one listens to old proverbs anymore.
Neither does anyone believe in the gravity of tales
once told at bedtime before dream to children.
Time slides past perfect when a dog
crashes head-on to a van’s cold muzzle.
We stand silent under a black umbrella,
knuckle-white freezing, watching it:
a no-sequence, seemingly inconsequential
road kill on a highway entering Bogotá.
Crossed earth, tierra cruzada, eyeless fields.
There are no crosses for any dead here.
You’ve seen Heironymous after flying away from
their hell and their heaven into his garden
de las delicias. With what eyes and ears of wonder!
No, not still lives but rondels of joy, round
songs on open mouths, all orifices taking
to delight, without sign of slack or slander.
In Bosch’s middleway, figures dance, con-
figuring the great spiral of the seasons.
Everything tastes with tongues of flame:
flamingoes, fire salamanders, blood corals,
beasts, birds, men, women, restore themselves
unto themselves as they go round the waters.
In this garden, strawberries have ripened.
Berry by one red berry picked, partaken.