Where the trees thin for spirit-lights
and roots pull from soil, we waded
through trails we made as we went, felt
 
night-moss haunted. We cupped swamp water
into buckets, scooped up the black milk
that kept us jarred as a fire-fly lamp, glowing
 
cold. We saw a woman charting and cutting
stars pour fire into the forest, and she told us
to stop looking: We have none of each other,
 
and all of each other at once. O pathfinder
with her white canoe, nothing stops moving
here. She says, this water holds us

good—doesn’t it? How everything rots
so quickly, mouth dead as a lightning bug,
only a flicker: turn us back. We plan
 
the night we met, again. Story of lost
and found. Story of a lady
ghost. We’re back
 
to the boats: small terrors ahead shaped
like scarves piled. Empty
and blistered, oars close. The hull abides
 
only its shadow, deepening our faces,
looking for us and finding only
us. In the forest: a fox trailing beneath
 
ferns—trails unmarked, without us
yet. A night where we haven’t met.