by Henry Wei Leung
There was a burying of plants.
I sought cover, not knowing the rain
was only wind shuddering through leaves.
If I become the light, I will only seem
to move, but will not move,
while an oak fern closes its fingers
and I fill its hollow palm. I ask
to remain unmarked;
I am an island
The rain has stopped.
Dear mayapple, your umbrella is burnt.
I see your veins from below. You alone
are browning here (a robin trills with twigs
wreathed in its beak, a fly treads water
in terrible calm), and I thank your folding
like a wet flag: may your dying
always grant us shade.