I can’t think about you all the time

The trail smears, fusc-

Russet, ferns in a crux, rouge stem-hairs, surly involucres

The dead crowd and flout their green survivals—here

Here you are—from a dark mud, from a burned-out excess

Waxed shafts forking into triangles

Knitted with care, the care, the lavishes, the slants, the one-off

Beastly embroideries



















Up through the woods, forcing the stones

Shelving mushroom cleave

The fretted chuck

All antithesis leaning inward, rock on rock on

Fir growing out the tunnel crack

Bricked from the base

Just pieces of it, wildering around it, chipped cones

The cortices, papery seed-shingle

Something catches in the mouth that

Crushes it



















Crows beset the settled hawk

In balm poplars, brittling the bastes

Get away from me fuck off

You fucking fuckers

Crows stoking up that slacker hawk

High in its handiwork

All the crows crying for their plot

The distant scene-stealing tourist plane

Twirling the mountain top

Cousin ravens reaving those

Steeps off it