8/10/2013

About rathering to be lost
The treelines along
Unapproved roads have
Strong thoughts.

There is

A quiet so still
That snow on tree bark
Is a rattle.

A fire so bare
That it's red whisper
Is noise in twilight's ear.

Even the heated space
Between the storm door
And the frame remembers

The journey grows
It's own strong jaws;

Ash scraped
Over rock
Oxidizes
Into
Moving shadows
Of unnamed things.

The constellations pinion,
Suddenly,
In a way that they cannot,

And you are left to wonder.

What is this all worth?

What language
Has been hammered
From the babble?