Your heart stood, a fire to my fingertips,
welcome and strange in the desert night.
You burned amid dew,
after the few flowers had shuttered themselves
with their hands and gone to bed, the hour I walked
my circles and talked to the moon.
Your branches reached to the sky like veins
or a broad map of rivers. And I came close
breathless and threw off my shoes
but the bush wasn’t you; it was a bush; it said
Get back up. You’ll be at home