Root Cap

memory

for every root in the dark a life-ring is what death
lays aside & for every leaf the light for every root
what tree-rings is a future a sun will never mark

a dead redwood

fruit

death  is a heat in the deep where a root is to yield
to sleep the power of fire

and the cold there stored?
the use of a future that will bear a deep a stone of desire

the sun

neigh-bor

in the way the future is our past
what we have remembered is surrendered in a glance
but in the way where others are why
is what we have surrendered, memorialized?

a prolonged cry

the ward of god

in embryo is a coming together
yet what is untoward in the distance covered
is the danger of appetite love has discovered

the spirit of dirt

for the sleepless beneath us
aroused as larvae to love like flies
surrender is the hunger of dream & the soul
a hole not yet ravished

all the instars

Worship

the floodplain is a homecoming
away is the ocean
& what is not yet, the pouring out of a mountain

who holds the yet of a deathless bearing
if in away, yet is the bringing rain
they will celebrate

an ancestor

The Wind

scattered seed will wake the dead
unmarked & fast asleep—buried everywhere
the living look

for what is death but this—
a mark we make upon the dark
like a new born root that arouses
the spot

a tree in Bethany

recapitulation

the away that is longed for by those that carry what the future holds is the void they will die for because the wind is the “why” when we proclaim the need to bury is why the wild is full of what the future carries

otherwise nothing is ravished & all is breathless—there is no seed absent the awayness & without wind we render nothing!

the gods

Covered

the dark stuff of thought the dead take care to wake the wild with, makes us, who most rely upon the sun to shine, take up desire—for what is a seed if not the need to bury in sleep so that in dream we who live may, well, think?

a ravished flower

to die for

if the dark is what the dead stuff with thought
than to wake from a sleep in which a dream is to think
how can the alive not?

What's the hurry?

to love the dark is to think
& to think is like sleep in that thought is like a dream
that comes, well, thoughtlessly, whereas to reason
is a light full of an effort to be that which wakes
thought (needlessly?)—this naught from which
we think the thought to grow is the touch of love
we die for

a bed of clover

root for the dark

to grow is to bury the bearing forth
until the bearing forth that is buried
bears fruit by that which is barren
for "that which is" (being a void)
is like the one a seed will die for

a soil pore

pregnant

if to bear is to carry what the future holds
to bury is to hold what the future carries

the wind

final abandonment

where the breathless wait
the wind will take it onward
till dirt yields the away
that is longed for

an opened awn

nothing

the endeavor to endeavor
that is where love yields deity
for what effort is immortality?

an embrace

everything

when touched by the effort to touch
who but love?  a dark reaches day
a sun in sway only because
the want of such renders us

the living

march past

in parting away is what drew us on
welcome the one who visits—absence companion
in travel—together the pleasure of coming
that brings travail here to this farewell