by Sage Cohen
Because I am unable to distinguish
destiny from desire, I write a poem
in which you are already gone. I walk.
It is spring and the woodpecker
is at eye level, his red belly exposed
over the tree’s new wound.
This is how a mirage finds
its bones. Warm and cold air
collide until what can’t be
reached and what can’t be
known reverse closed and open
revealing a portal into a new
beginning reached only
through illusion.