Images from the Kingdom of Things
Sunlight is blowing westward across the unshadowed meadow,
Night, in its shallow puddles,
liquid and loose in the trees.
The world is a desolate garden,
No distillation of downed grasses,
stopping the clouds, coming at us one by one.
The snow crown on Mt. Henry is still white,
old smoke watcher's tower
Left-leaning a bit in its odd angle to the world,
Down here, in their green time, it's past noon
the lodgepole pines adjust their detonators.
The blanched bones of moonlight scatter across the meadow.
The song of the second creek, with its one note,
over and over.
How many word-warriors ever return
midnight's waste and ruin?
Count out the bones, count out the grains in the yellow dust.
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