To bear you in mind.To be jammed in your saffrons.The abasement of these ditchesof your smolderings.Of your abasement. Follow this in:we go weatherward?is this tenable? The roothairs fusefor the openingsto shoot from.You leafon the potentate’s dome?You remnantin need of finishing?You giltand swift execution?

slant hand of beech leavesshag of oaks before waterWhen did you go missing from me?That passage between limb and slipped skingouged hickories, the ermine-bright birchthrough all that is traveling slopewardcircleting leaf through branch weavecorymbs of curled leaveslone cedar document risingThrough trees that far land moves descantthe old rusts and pastes undershinedDon’t you ever think this

stripped batting of cloudglimpsed ligamentsdusk coming up underlithographic, nib-hatchingsinstruments clickthe fine-sprung locustreplicate dinge along hill-linestailings of umber, the rust smudgeThere is still that hemmed ocean of oaksthe various reds, the somehowsilver cast over the brown-goldthe under-brushed shadowsHow can there be more of their dispensinginto air?The night-openings of the treesThe thousand clefts intoTheir corridors shiver and

clouds in rafts above, upon one another, pushed up alongthe margin of skydark underbelliesShirring of grasses and the nearly empty apple tree behindWhere is this beginning from?The roll of clouds bolsters up closemoves vaguely eastHear the interstate, its rush of backdrop constantOh those deep colors are something sacredThere are patches of olive green, chartreuse, umber,

rings diminish, duck reflects flight then threads offLong branch of land, rusted oaks smolderingfawn shore, grasses bare scripts of greenblack fingerbones of the willows, splayedrubric fringe of the reeds at the edge of waterThe reflection is its own blurred dreamThe blended edges, furred thingtawny path of stalks brushed into gray slope behindBright yellow mostly gone

Barely discerned cloudsHard, hard to get herewhat worth, what worthRiver of steel.River of no one becoming you.Trees that are emptier today, more forced in their formsTo focus on them is to be made glad of them in theirstrangenessThe earth extrudes through them toward emptinessThe few elms dismemberingThe willow’s bloom above shore like a curtainingTo focus

The reservoir churned and cloud-deformedThe far line of hills, fused, bunched colorbitter wind against this hunchmy folded bonesI can see the rust earth beneath trees, the rough matsgathering weight in semi-darkness, dimnesting bases of treesGraft of dark cloud upon lighter one behind, building upof something, a thickening, deposit of cold air, dark webof insistence, built