Trumpet vine takes root
among incipient
tomato deepunder and around
all obstacles it presses on through packed crowded
nesses—I just I
imagine a dry clicking—it must be
heard it must be chewed on
by something.
What is thinking that
in meeting matter
circumvents it?
In the fuzzy coat of hairs, the taking in and from that springing outward
into colossal light. What, or where, is upward? From there, inside, in deep
sunk windlessness, in all directions dark? What will to be
be when we are
windlessness as well. When
it has dropped its leaves it is nothing,
nothing like the animal
‘s sudden-falling.
Poem of Distant Places
Hills like molting buffalo, or,
so I’m told I
take the turn off
at Poverty Flat Road
where the road only
ends at what it
hints at:
Dead man Pass
are fields of wheat you could brush your hand over and be pleased.
Carry Traction Devices the signs say
in a way that wishes you, well,
a mind of ripe wheat. Now let your body
rest, won’t you
brush your hand over
this way? Let out a green sign?
Leave me guttered?
Let me pass.
