Near

All those bends —
Years and lamp-lit low clouds
Pouring out of you,
Fold over fold,
A glory;

The way you raised up trees
Beside my staggering path.

The way you hid,
And stayed,

Unmoving, and
Wrung me dry of
The hopes
You yourself authored
In me.

You were always
Emptying branches
And horizons;

Pulling
Blankets of cold distraction
From around my wrists and ears
And neck,

Pushing me
With ticks
And thickets
To the coasts of things.