Knives Whistle

Cut from a mail bag

without a return address,

this land whispers its name

from a waterfall’s hairline,

pressed flat under bent knee.

Lifting your head

to look past coming night—

knives whistle.

You scribble an address

to a place where weeds

door the passage back.

Stone in throat,

your hand reaches

to clutch a leaf,

as you turn

toward the rising moon—

dove-winged