Once the mind is spent hushed with its greenery

the place

comes into its persuasion

              free        

of its connections to

                                        all

                                          fact

            a separate quality —





            a distillation, force by numbers

pieces shining through. . .





                                    the water rinsing

    mud and cool saliva

pricking at my skin



the underbrush all

      pinecones          scattered limbs

with mountains

                    bending

light the wind is in,



                               the rubble’s

light wet hemlocks

                         ending in a rim

                                    a dormant cone,

                  a bank of greener

               wind



                 unburdening

                             my mind to sight

                             my virtue in this

                    grammar

nothing more —