Penance
Last night, the word nipple found
my mouth the same way humming
birds find lupine, and I was taken
by my beloved to where mules walk
the shore of a lake that breathes
green glass from churches at the bottom
of what fifty years ago was a valley.
I spoke to a mule in the timbre
of truck tires on cattle guards
and asked him to take back my words,
slick as river stone and rippled,
and keep them on the shore
away from my mouth, far
from drowning.