Like the moon, I turn away
from the sea and the trails
you have braided
down to the sea.
I turn my back to your woods
where a woman was raped
last summer though I loved you
and once stood on your bluff looking out
at the dock, stretched like a spine
as the sun slung down your blue water.
I ran through leaf shadows
as a train shot over a lifted track,
let it roar through me,
pure and deafening.
Did he cover her mouth
when he pulled her in
between the pines? I turn my back
to your woods, where you grew the moss,
and it rotted. You grew it again,
and it gave her nothing.
