Let’s go back to when we were still undiscovered.
To when losing meant losing and we lost
everything. Our names, the candle of our bodies.
Small tokens of light clipping in and out
of us like bullet holes. Our skin a thing for fire.
Let’s rub the moon between thumb and forefinger
until we disappear. There are galaxies of hurt
and in each of them we become masters.
We crawl up the throat of the sky like dying
animals and beg heaven to let us in. We don’t
believe in anything worth saving. The fields
flashing in the quiet distance, the stars
raked from the chest of the night like glowing
leaves. In a way we are as still as the day
we were born. A pair of yellow eyes
floating in a tree, the idea of flight so close
we stretch back an arrow until we are the arrow.
Philip Schaefer’s collaborative chapbook Smoke Tones is forthcoming from Phantom Limb (2015), and his poems are out or forthcoming in Forklift Ohio, DIAGRAM, Fourteen Hills, RHINO, alice blue, Columbia Poetry Review, Toad, and Whiskey Island among others. He can usually be found tending bar at the craft distillery in Missoula, where he recently received his MFA from the University of Montana.