Abandonment

Sometimes at night, the aspen leaves tick
like the fingernails of criminals

finally lowered from the scaffold
onto the bright-lit concrete floor

of the chamber. And what they say
is something about forgiveness

and how it keeps unfolding us
like the wings of crushed birds

on desert highways in the wind,
which comes out of the sky

where the night also dwells.
And both the night and the wind,

which are sisters, and who constantly
betray each other – one to morning,

one to distance – each eventually
reaches us, finally touches us

with their long hands and lucent nails,
as though to bless us but never

keep us, never hold us, letting go
and letting go, and us falling

and falling silent, mouths open.
All this, the leaves make clear

in their leaving, beneath the moon
and the distant stars, which struggle

to hold down the black like heads
of tacks or gleaming nails, but even they

are already dead or on fire.