1.

The new
fat moon of it
the salt
leading
edge
of a vein, blue
in the face

here at the far
edge of
the lake’s
plate

only one
star
falling, raw
as
milk.

2.

Cheddaring
is a winter
word a
falling down or
heaping up
of curd

You are
a blind sharpness
when the day
goes down
the trees
gathering up
future quiet
scattering

pale
crumbles

I sift
them up
you
knock
them down.

3.

Tell me
about this cheese

I will say that
each cut can
only tell its
own name can
only say
these grasses
this time
that cow
this dark
hold, these
hands and
those knowing
turns–

it cannot say
that it will be
in another month
under
another set of
pin sharp
lights
every word
you once thought
true

the salt of
loss
the promise
made in
hope

more words
aging out
of taste and
time, some cuts
too soon
others

not soon
enough
to save.