There is No Place for Grief in a House that Serves the Muse
Alyse Knorr
Bike made of trees,
water made of bike.
Deep in the sunblink
you invite me, pull
remnants from the creek
where you drowned
a pinto rocking horse.
Where are the trees?
In the narrative. With
pocket rocks for ballast.
Upstream a landscape
missing hands and face.
I cannot see the forest.
I cannot see the lake.
Only your imprint,
love, interned in fog.
And on the bank a deer
turning into stone.
first published in The Los Angeles Review
