This isn’t a patch unless we don’t know what

is happening or where Eleanor, in the sinew

of the moment, is. Presently we are falling into

the sensuality of what isn’t, into what is free

inside the taste of honeycomb. Unable to say

what this is like, we are gazing happily at branches

exploding into seasonal outer blooming. Warmth

from the sun is almost real, especially when it

touches the living needles of pine trees so their

scent softens the breeze of an afternoon. Fast

is the preferred posture. Fast makes pollen land

prolifically on another earth. We found Eleanor,

exactly the way she found herself, with rabbits

running through her hair like untamable charms.

NATHAN SPOON is the author of Doomsday Bunker (Swan World) and My Name is Gretchen Merryweather (hardPressed poetry). His poems appear or are forthcoming in Poetry, American Poetry Review, Mantis, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, The Scores, Oxford Poetry, South Carolina Review, and elsewhere. He is editor of Queerly.