absence as pretence

i.
the deep of my ground is sound
ed with

no pen no stalk of each new; we
whistle

we stalk we dance the ground &
bury; a

lone whistle is sound this deep
this un

approachable distance where riot
keeps a

wary watch

ii.
what is one to make of
beads
   past summer   spring
hails the cloud to make do

the mountain makes do to
sing   we call the watchwoman
and ask her to sing spring

the stream makes do   what
is one to make of this valid
thrust of spring stream cloud

iii.
i have gone past the unlit moon,
the shuttered

mast giving red its color, the
waste of each

night’s marrow becoming more; i
have been touch,

solved the curvature of the unlit
moon and stood

unmoored as the whistle of rust
calls my name, &

i remember.

iv.
This is the rumble of the
firepan

the bleached mouth wanting
the sun

and its molars stretched
as shine

how will the moment believe
in this

here and this panned out
horror

v.
Absence is pretending to fit
in silences   it is goading the

Rite to speech and failing suitably,
floating in mid air   the flit

Of a ravine and its midflight recall –
the bird of harm hones in & whiles

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